Valse Mélancolique
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, bored and recently returned to London, is given a challenge by Irene Adler: to seduce the sweet, innocent Molly Hooper and procure proof of the seduction in writing. But all is fair in love and war and soon, the web becomes far more tangled than any of them can cope with. (Sherlolly, Molrene with shades of Adlock. Dangerous Liaisons AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Yep. A Dangerous Liaisons AU. Your eyes do not deceive you. That does mean there will be some heavy angst in this story, along with manipulation of characters and darker moments (no dub/non-con however). Oh, and a hefty amount of smut.

This story is a multi-chapter story, which features **Sherlock/Molly** , **Molly/Irene** and **Sherlock/Irene**. It should take up about 7 chapters. My hope is to update this story once every two months. (It would be once a month, but real life sadly constrains me.) The story itself set in the latter part of the 18th century – so 1780s, with a focus on Georgian England. I'm not a historian, just an amateur interested in history with a few books as her sources so please forgive me if I make any errors. I do try to get the big stuff right.

And, as ever, please don't forget to review, follow, favourite and so on if you so wish. If you want more of me, you can always check out my Tumblr **_victorianhooper_**. It's mostly a stop-off for things I find pretty and text posts as I stumble my way through adulthood.

* * *

 **July, 1786.**

The music—string led, overly romantic—filled the air. The guests, bedecked in jewels and swathed in the fashions of the age with masks covering their faces, danced and whispered among themselves. Up above the main floor of festivities, Irene sipped at the glass of wine she held in her right hand as she fanned her features with her left. The summer air so often made balls such stifling affairs.

The first she knew of his presence was the sensation of his fingertips drawing a line against the profile of her neck. She hummed and snapped closed her fan, letting the item dangle from her wrist. The ribbon of it was thin, the feel of it against her skin something well raised ladies always grew used to. Stood behind her, he nuzzled his nose deftly against the hollow of her cheek. His mouth ducked towards her ear as he settled his palm onto the shoulder of her dress. His other hand curled around the base of her waist.

"You used to be able to conceal your boredom far more deftly."

"Mm. I suppose it's lucky I'm not really trying." Irene smiled as the intruder to her peace stepped back, letting her go. He circled around her towards her left side and kissed the back of her hand in greeting, his blue eyes holding her.

"I hear you got married again," he remarked as he let her hand drop, straightening up. His eyes turned to survey the dance that took place below. Irene nodded.

"Seven months ago." She eyed him and sipped again at her wine. "I'm surprised it took you so long to hear about it."

His attention did not remove itself from the dance when he spoke again.

"I've been busy." His mouth tilted with a smile as he leaned against the balcony's rail, continuing to watch the dance. "Does the poor fellow know of your – tastes?"

"And doesn't care a jot about them," Irene declared with pride. "He only wished for a trophy wife – so I'm allowed to come and go as I please. Far better than my previous husband."

"My congratulations," he murmured, nodding at the ladies who briefly lifted their eyes to notice him. Attending with their husbands, they gave him no such courtesy in return.

"My thanks," Irene replied.

"I suppose it must be easy for them," he mused with a sigh, running his hand against his naturally dark, tousled curls (unlike his contemporaries, he ignored the need for the usual wigs). She understood his words perfectly. He'd always been the restless sort, his quest for distraction near eternal. "Their minds don't _race_ – they can content themselves with dancing and gossip."

"Whereas we, poor souls that we are, must indulge in games." Irene shifted herself toward him, standing at his shoulder. She softened her breaths, aware of their proximity. He turned his head to look at her with a light smile growing on his lips.

"And what game shall we be playing tonight?"

Irene gave a shrug. She glanced over the guests and the dancers. Her features soon lightened into a smile as her gaze fell on the perfect subject for her companion.

"Aha," she said softly. "I believe I've found the perfect subject for you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

She pointed down into the crowd. "What do you think of her?"

Obediently, he followed her line of sight and, on seeing the creature she had picked out, he straightened up. His smile grew. The creature in question was, for the moment, involved in a dance. Her dress, a pastel shade of pink edged with white lace, was the height of fashion. Skin naturally pale, her posture was poised, her make-up immaculate; every part of her was carefully arranged into the most perfectly superficial appearance of beauty. All it took to win the other guests over was the use of a well-placed polite smile or an incline of the head. It was little wonder why a man like him would grow so pleased when made to witness such a sight as pure, as delightfully innocent, as her.

He straightened up and folded his arms over his chest. He shrugged. "She's pretty enough – witty and virtuous I'm sure. I've had plenty like her before."

"Oh, I don't doubt that." Irene took in the sight of her chosen subject, who laughed along with her dancing companion as they turned together, hands linked and bodies close. She hummed in thought. "But she's different – I'm sure of it. Different enough to make the game fun."

The briefest of smiles touched at his cheek on seeing the delicate creature down below turn in her partner's arms and give a gentle smile. Still he shook his head. "No. She is plain, and frankly, not worth my time."

"She's worth my time, surely."

He looked to her at that, his head tilted to the left and his eyes narrowed. "What's her name?"

"You'll have to find that out for yourself," Irene said lightly, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. His replying laugh was short, low. He closed the distance between them, leaning forward. She did not flinch, but widened her smile and bit at her bottom lip. With parted lips close to hers, he reached up and traced his thumb against the hollow of her cheek. Below them, the dance was coming to an end.

"You—" he murmured, his eyes falling towards her mouth. "For a stranger?"

She turned her head away. "There's no fun in offering oneself up for a friend."

"What if she proves an easy conquest?" He asked the question with an easy, languid tone. She could see his mouth water and swallowed a laugh. She doubted that the creature below would be at all _easy_.

Irene pressed herself against the balcony's pillar, smiling. Pink roses covered the pillar, thornless vines wrapped tight around the structure. She breathed in the scent of them with a soft sigh. "Then you'll have me all the quicker, won't you?"

He flicked his gaze towards the subject, and he gave a small sigh, as if the thought of seduction was tiresome, something done by others but never him. He did know how to wear a mask well. She had to give him that.

"And you promise yourself to me," he asked, turning his attention back to her, "if I can win her?"

"Win her, bed her. I will require written proof however." She paused, considering him. "Perhaps a letter of some sort."

Arrogant as ever, he grinned at this particular stipulation. "It's done."

"Then go," she said with a sigh. "The dance has ended, and you wouldn't want to miss your new friend, now would you?"

He answered with a bow of his head and a swift departure. Irene smirked and watched as he advanced through the crowd towards his intended target. Fanning herself against the stuffy air, and trapped in conversation with a duchess, she did not see him approach. Yet when he tapped her on the shoulder and apologised for the intrusion (no doubt he would take great pains to make it clear he did not mean to interrupt either her or the duchess), she greeted him with such cordiality that Irene had to give a small laugh. As she was wont to do, Molly Hooper accepted his invitation of a dance with a single nod of her head and an offer of her hand. The band struck up, the song now a jovial waltz, and the dancers took their places.

Irene sipped back the rest of her wine and her lips stretched into a smile. Oh, but this would be wickedly fun indeed.

* * *

 **Five Months Earlier.**

Lady Frances Hooper, born into a wealthy family of merchants, was a woman of stringent cultivation. Multiple marriages had made her a lady, the finest dressmakers had made her a fashion icon and her connections and her wit had made her the first invited to any occasion (whether she accepted was something that could only be hoped for).

Yet for all her marriages, God had only bestowed one child upon her, and it was that which called for Frances to make a visit to Irene Adler's country estates on an unseasonably warm day in February.

From her place atop the house's steps, Irene watched the carriage arrive through the high iron gates and drive down the straight narrow path towards the house. She broke into a smile when the carriage came to a stop. A footman, dressed in red and gold, walked down the steps to open the carriage door.

"Frances," Irene called warmly, giving a light curtsey as Frances stepped out of her carriage. Frances remained where she was, as she glanced over the mansion's pale stone. It was a large estate, for the part of Surrey in which it lived, with near to a hundred acres to its name—an estate which had been poorly kept, with its tenant away for such long periods, until Irene's establishment there.

After finding himself with a wife to his name, her husband had seen fit to gift Irene with the control of the house and its staff. Never one for the business of running a household, he had given little question to the refurbishments Irene set about making. That, it seemed, was the duty of others. Frances sniffed a little and continued towards the steps. Reaching Irene, she bestowed a short kiss upon her friend's cheek.

"You need new windows," she said, her brown eyes flitting up. "Especially on the upper levels. They look too old."

Irene gave a demure smile. "I shall look into it, Frances. But about your letter—"

"Oh yes," Frances said, adjusting her shawl. The woven fabric, patterned with winter flowers, settled against her elbows and she held the hem of it lightly between her fingers. "You understand the predicament I'm under, I'm sure."

Irene nodded and stepped forward to take Frances' arm.

"Completely," Irene said with a nod, stepping forward to take Frances' arm with her own. "Though, I don't think you described the whole situation to me in your letter—"

"No, I didn't have time. We're so close to the season, you see, and everything needs organising…" Frances looked rather lost for a moment, as if her thoughts were too tangled to yet put together. She patted Irene's hand. "Come, show me the garden. We can speak there."

Clipped and trimmed with the flowers winter buds, the scents in the air were sweet and crisp. Irene made idle conversation about the newly installed flowers and how the spring flowers would look once they were installed come March, as social etiquette demanded, and Frances dutifully replied in kind. It was not until they reached the garden's bower that they began to talk truthfully. Frances fanned herself as she sat upon the bower's wooden seat. Dark shadows of the bower's arch fell upon her face. Irene sat beside her and listened as Frances began.

"My daughter, as I told you, has been lived in the country for most of her life. Her father insisted upon it when he passed." Irene smiled at the heaviness in Frances' tone. "He has always been so protective of her. He told me he wanted her to know her own mind – he wanted her to be educated, less _frivolous_ than other girls."

"I can understand," Irene said, adopting a soothing edge to her voice. Frances continued.

"He stipulated that I waited until she was 21 to let her go to London for the season. And now she is 21, but she is—" Frances gave a reluctant sigh, "—how can I put this… she is not prepared. She is polite and sweetly tempered – but she has little knowledge of etiquette, in the ways of being a lady. I have tried to teach her, but – oh."

Frances dropped her fan into her lap and extended out her hand to take Irene's. She squeezed it tight, a seeking of reassurance. "This is why I've come to you, dear. My brother, when he lived, loved you."

"And I loved your brother," Irene replied. "What is it you need me to do?"

"I want you to take my daughter in, prepare her for her debut before the London season starts. It would only be for a short while."

Irene nodded, slipping her hand free from Frances' hold. She folded her hands against her lap, brushing her thumb over her skin. The weather was cooling, and her hands had grown pale.

"Tell me Frances – if you do not mind me asking – how does your daughter look?"

"She is perfectly amiable in every way – plain, like most young girls of her age. And stubborn to a fault, rather like her father, but she is amiable. Oh, and she likes to read," Frances added. She shook her head. "Far too much, if you ask me."

Irene smiled. The overlooking and running of a rural country estate was distraction enough, but once in a while, it was the duty of a lady of society to prove charitable; to take on a project or a cause. And there was no greater cause than to help a poor lost soul. Irene reached forward and gently laid her hand atop of Frances' free one.

"Send her to me, Frances. I'll soon have her ready."

* * *

When Molly Hooper did arrive at Irene's estates, she was accompanied by two footmen and luggage she shyly termed to be the idea of her mother. The garments she wore were more suited to the Palladian fashion, with the design erring on the side of practical and the material edging towards worn. Her skirts and bodice lacked any kind of ornament. Her naiveté shone through in her wide brown eyes and was similar to that of any young lady not yet presented. Her darkly coloured cloak was heavy, well suited to travel, and Irene soon had the heavy item removed from Molly's shoulders by one of her footmen. Molly did not glance over the building in the manner of her mother but studied it with the air of a student. As she ascended up the stairs, with her skirts in her hands, she gazed at the high square arch of the front doors and the ornaments that were engraved into the pale stone.

"My husband's coat of arms," Irene explained. Molly, who had stopped in front of a carved stone shield, turned to face her. The chill of the air was on her breath, faint clouds of vapour poured from pink lips. Irene stood beside her and folded her hands in front of her. "Or at least, my husband's family's coat of arms."

Irene stared at Molly, this new arrival to her estates. Her reaction to the house had allowed for her to make many observations about the girl. She had clearly been raised around wealth, for it was not the size of the estates that seemed to bother her. Extravagance, though, had never been a part of her life. She had been taught that subtlety was key. Irene breathed through her nose and looked back to the stone coat of arms. High society, for all of its veiled whispers and gossip, never cared for subtlety.

"Forgive me—" Molly spoke softly, "where is your husband? My mother – she told me of him. He is a… vice admiral?"

Irene laughed softly.

"Admiral. He is currently away at sea," Irene said, hooking her arm underneath Molly's and turning her. She guided Molly towards the door. "He does not take much stock in social gatherings, unfortunately. Now, your mother has told you what will happen while you're here?"

Molly nodded. The two of them walked up another small flight of stairs as the doors were opened. "You're to teach me. To prepare me."

"Exactly." Irene hid a smile as she saw Molly's eyes widen further at the space inside the house, and further saw Molly swallow and try to appear unaltered as Irene continued to speak. "While you're here, I thought what would be good is that you have the morning to yourself – to read, write, sew, walk, do whatever you like – and the afternoon will compromise of your lessons. We should take most of the lessons in the library but we will branch out as time goes on. The evenings you will spend with me, in the parlour room after dinner."

"I – I have never had a morning to myself," Molly admitted quietly. "Usually someone is accompanying me."

"The beauty of coming into society is that you can be perfectly isolated," Irene said brightly. "Unfortunately, tonight is _rather_ difficult. I'm to host a dinner party you see, so you shall be taking supper a little earlier than usual. This doesn't offend you, does it?"

Molly seemed a little bewildered by Irene's quick conversation, but then she smiled. "No. Not at all. I can be with my books."

Irene glanced towards Molly, tilting her head. Frances had been right in one aspect of her daughter. She was indeed a sweet girl. She was not, however, plain. There was something in the soft, circular edges of her jaw. A spark in her brown eyes, familiar to her mother's, which told Irene that Molly Hooper was not to be an ordinary woman.

* * *

The bedchamber that Lady Adler had given her for her stay was a sumptuous thing, far from the chambers she'd shared with her governess as a child. Her mother had tried, as Molly had grown older, to move her governess into separate chambers with wiling words and promises of extravagance but her governess was not to be persuaded. It was only when she had become ill with a fever and feared passing it on to her charge that she'd acquiesced. Molly had been eighteen at the time of her governess' removal, a woman. Another time where she had felt anger towards her father. Governesses went away when the child was fifteen, not eighteen. A woman did not secretly weep after she watched the possessions of another being moved out of her chambers.

Her nineteenth and twentieth years had been almost blurs; blurs of wishing and wondering and hoping. Staring out of the high arched windows towards the gardens, while she heard muffled laughter and conversation from outside the door as Lady Adler's guests passed through the doors into the great hall, Molly knew that it was all just a glimpse. A terrifying, thrilling glimpse into something bigger.

A sliver of light crossed the pages of her book. Molly looked up. Lady Adler's red evening dress, with the light behind her, was shadowed in silhouette. She'd shown the dress to Molly before her guests' arrival, had promised Molly she would no doubt have a hundred dresses like it when she made her entrance into society. Now, Irene briefly pressed a finger to her lips as she closed the door and leaned against it.

Tipping her head back, she let out a heavy sigh.

"Such delights are these," she murmured. Her gaze shifted towards Molly. She straightened up. "What are you reading?"

"Oh, um—" Molly's fingers brushed lightly over the words. She shut the book. "Nothing important."

"I'm sure it's far more entertaining than having to endure another one of Sir Barton's hunting stories," Lady Adler replied, making to move towards the window. Molly gave an amused smile. She sat up, making room and Mrs Adler settled easily onto the window seat. Her skirts spread out against the emerald velvet. She arranged her hands carefully in her lap.

"The pity with hosting a dinner party is that one cannot depart unless they have a good excuse." She eyed Molly. "That's your first lesson."

"Mother used to complain about her dinner parties too," Molly murmured. She rested her head against the window's cool glass, closing her eyes. She chuckled. "She always said they took too much effort for too little gratitude."

"Don't let that become common knowledge," Irene said playfully. "Your mother is famous for her dinner parties."

"I attended a few of them," Molly continued. "Four, I think. And I always wondered why she never invited people she liked. Then I looked at all the guests, sat around – and I realised." It had been her third dinner party, when she was just a few days shy of her twenty first. A small affair, the guests had compromised a lord, his wife, a duke and his son and a politician. They'd spent the evening joking and laughing and as she'd watched her mother tease the politician about Parliament, she'd known in a flash that it didn't at all matter who the guest was. What mattered was their title, their position. Where they could get you, where you could get them. A socialite or a gentleman wished for more access to politics, all they had to do was feed them.

"Any woman can socialise. The real trick is not to act like them." Molly turned her head at these words. She peered at her host. Lady Adler rose to her feet, brushing down her skirts.

"Act like them?" Molly echoed. Lady Adler's features softened into something that was not quite a smile. She stepped towards her and reached out. Her hand gently cupped at the underside of Molly's jaw. Her gaze was sharp.

"Wear their fashions, learn their dances and share their gossip, but never share their attitudes." She leaned forward and kissed Molly fully on the mouth. She did not linger. When she looked to Molly again, her eyes glittered. Her playful tone returned. "A gesture of friendship. Our lessons will continue tomorrow."

Her hand dropped from Molly's jaw, descending towards the book in Molly's lap. Her fingers touched the cover, her thumb pressed against the closed pages. Slowly, she pushed them open, fingertips ghosting over the words. Molly looked to Irene, finding a look sharp in its teasing. "Enjoy your book."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** Major apologies, people who have been waiting for a second chapter to this story. I haven't managed to update this story as quickly as I wanted to, but a combination of things has led to the delay. Partly it's been the fault of real life rudely intruding and mostly me wrestling with all the set-up that's present in this chapter. Set-up is hard guys. Too hard.

Also, I promise you that Sherlock Holmes is in this story. I haven't tricked you. Remember Luke Skywalker in "The Force Awakens"? Yeah. Sherlock's basically the Luke Skywalker of this story. Though a bit less... uh... space hobo-y.

* * *

 **March, 1786**

 **Over a month later**

Molly stood at the window and gazed down at the grey streets. There was something different about the townhouses, she thought. Something quieter compared to the rest of London. A sense of isolation amongst the calm conversation and private walks. Everywhere else, by contrast, had something akin to the beat of a heart, the life always moving, a thought of change seeming to thrum among the markets, the shops and its people. Irene had smiled as their carriage drove through the streets, pointing out the places everybody of note attended of a day and a night. She'd seemed to thrive on Molly's excitement, her smile ever wider as she beckoned Molly past the doors of her townhouse, their accommodation for the night.

"Molly, do come away from the window!" Her mother's command made her turn. Her mother flapped her fan against her features. "There are only a few hours until this evening's assembly, and we need to make you ready."

"I'm sorry Mother."

"Let her look, Frances," Irene interjected. "You said so yourself – we have a few hours, and it is your daughter's first time in London."

Molly's mother sighed heavily, snapping her fan closed, clutching it in her palm. She flicked her impatient glare towards Irene. "She will have plenty of time to look tomorrow. Now, Molly, come. Choose your dress."

Her mother gestured towards the ornate four-poster bed, the centrepiece of Molly's bedchambers. The dark red bedsheets were covered with dresses of bright silk and satin, pretty bows adorning their sleeves. They were the garments of a lady; the garments of a woman who ran households and hosted dinner parties. Molly hesitated to touch them, to feel the dresses under her skin.

"I think this blue will suit you best," Irene walked forward as she spoke, easily picking up one of the dresses. It was the least decorative of the collection, silver embroidery covering its bust. Small ruffles of an opaque white edged the shorter elbow-length sleeves. Irene lifted her head, her blue eyes finding Molly, at which she smiled. "Do you agree?"

Molly held the dress to herself, glancing down. The silk of it fell through her fingers like water. "I like it very much. Mother?"

"I like it too," her mother said decisively, walking forward. "Irene, call for the maid. We'll have to do something about my daughter's hair once she's dressed."

Irene nodded. Putting the dress aside on the bed, she hurried out of the door, letting it swing shut behind her. Molly looked to her mother. She was smiling, a deep smile that made her eyes shine. Wordlessly she cupped Molly's cheek, brushing her thumb softly against Molly's skin.

"You'll be beautiful tonight," she said, drawing her daughter into a hug. Molly sank into her mother's arms, taking a breath. There was such firmness, such a sure belief in her mother's words. Her mother held her tighter. When she spoke again, there was pride. "They won't be able to take their eyes off you."

* * *

The drink was poured freely at events such as these. Among the music, attendees mingled, wine glasses in their hands and words flowing from their mouths. Fervent whispers were exchanged, accompanied by brief searching glances. Samuel Abbot felt every one of those glances. He heard the snatches of gossip, the speakers hiding their words behind fans and sips of their drinks.

"Recently taken under the tutelage of Lord Stamford, I believe," said one mother to her daughter. "Very promising – already making waves, and bound to continue," said another.

Samuel knocked back a gulp of his wine. A servant approached him, more drink already being proffered, but Samuel waved them away. It was useful enough he would admit, to attend these occasions, to make himself known to the social elite, but he thrived, truly thrived, among laws and lawmakers. Here he felt like cattle to be auctioned.

The doors to the ballroom were opened. The master of ceremonies faced the crowd, his voice ringing over the music.

"Lady Adler, Lady Hooper and her daughter Miss Hooper."

Dressed in red, her lips coloured a darker hue, Lady Adler led the way. A well-known attendant to these events, she smiled as she turned towards her companions. Samuel paid all of his attention to the younger of the two. Her manner was unlike any of the other ladies in the room. She smiled demurely. She listened intently. She laughed lightly. Nothing about her was created with the intention of bettering herself. Everything about her, everything in the way she acted, was there for the sake of bettering others. Samuel swallowed, but his throat was dry. He blinked, swallowed back his wine, the sweet concoction slipping down his throat, the scent invading.

"Mr Abbot!"

He coughed and turned his head. Lady Hooper, dressed in silver, smiled warmly at him. Quickly regaining his composure, Samuel bowed in greeting.

"Lady Hooper."

"Now, I've heard whispers that you've entered the employ of Lord Stamford." Lady Hooper took his arm, smiling warmly. "Tell me, is there any truth in this rumour? You know how gossip can be. With one rumour here, another there, it all becomes so—" she sighed, searching for the right phrase, "complicated."

"Lord Stamford has been very kind to me," Samuel answered, his eyes still fixed upon Lady Hooper's daughter. It seemed like he could not look away from her. He cleared his throat, briefly directing a politely smile at Lady Hooper.

"So he should be," Lady Hooper stated, her eyes flicking towards the direction of his gaze. She smiled. "And of course, Lord Stamford only takes on the best. Do you enjoy studying the law, Mr Abbot?"

"Very much so, Lady Hooper."

"I'm glad of that. A man must find a profession he adores. Otherwise it's simply not worth the time, is it? Oh, Molly, dear!" They came to a stop as Lady Hooper gave the call. Her daughter turned. Her eyes grew curious as they found Samuel. He felt his chest grow tight; his breath hitched. For a moment, it was as if a thunder bolt had come, struck him, made him numb and unable to focus. In return, her look softened, brightening with recognition.

"Samuel!" she breathed, disbelief in her speech. "I – I haven't seen you since—"

"Since you were children!" Lady Hooper said brightly, looking between the two of them. "Hasn't my daughter grown, Mr Abbot?"

Samuel just about found the courage to reply with a compliment, though his tongue tripped up against the words. "Your daughter has grown very well, Lady Hooper."

"Call my daughter by her name, please Samuel," Lady Hooper urged. "You were friends once. You can do so."

He blushed, immediately lowering his gaze. This was ridiculous. One simple meeting and he was forgetting all rules of sensibility. If Molly Hooper was to see him as a gentleman he had to gain his composure. Straightening his shoulders, he offered out his hand.

"That we were," he said finally. Molly's fingers touched his palm. Samuel studied her for a moment. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Molly."

She may have indeed been much changed in terms of looks, but her sweetness had definitely remained.

* * *

Irene noticed Frances long before her arrival at her side. Weaving easily through the crowd, dismissing potential conversations with a breezy greeting and a compliment, Frances raised a knowing eyebrow as she tilted her head towards the dance floor. Irene looked. There, in the centre of the dancers, was Molly in the arms of a beaming Samuel Abbot. Together the two of them turned slowly in time to the music. He was a handsome enough man, Mr Abbot, his eyes blue with his blonde hair scooped back by a black ribbon into a ponytail, his green garments fashionable enough. He danced well and, by the spark in Molly's eyes, spoke well with a degree of intelligence. (It was a poor woman who allowed her friend to marry a fool.)

"You know of him?" Frances asked, voice slightly lowered. Always wary of the value of discretion.

Irene's mouth twisted into a smile.

"A little," she replied. She'd gleaned enough from the whispers to gain a suitable enough portrait of him. Only son, protégé of a respected judge, with a promising career ahead of him. It took little intellectual prowess to discover why Frances was so pleased.

"I doubt they've left each other's company since I introduced them," Frances said, her voice growing low. Though proud, she knew the value of discretion. Frances let out a laugh. "The poor boy's enchanted!"

The dance was a light waltz, reflective of the spring season. Stepping back, Mr Abbot smiled wider as Molly turned underneath his arm, soon returning to his hold. His hand slid against her waist, resting there with an already known familiarity. It was an image worthy of painting; the gallant knight with his lady love.

"I do love my daughter, but I shall admit – this would not have been done without your help, Irene." Frances' gaze was grounded for a moment, the peacock pride edged with something like relief. She held Irene's hand in thanks. "She's wonderful."

Irene said nothing, but watched Molly complete her dance. Giving a gentleman-like bow to her, Mr Abbot left Molly with a brief few words and a kiss to her hand. Soon noting his intended destination, Irene slipped away into the crowd.

It was moments later that Samuel left Frances' side to return to Molly and Frances found her again.

"Mr Abbot has asked my permission to court my daughter," she said slowly, delight battling against her calm tone. Frances left it a moment before she spoke again. "Did you know that they were playmates? As children. I knew his parents."

'Parents' was a diplomatic term. It was small talk that Samuel Abbot had been raised by his father, who in turn had been a wealthy merchant and a widower at the age of thirty-two.

"And your permission?" Irene asked, seeing through the crowd Samuel escort Molly out of the ballroom towards the gardens. Not the most original of places, nor the most imaginative, but not even the most suitable bachelor could have every desired quality.

"Freely given. If he doesn't propose in a month, he's a fool."

Irene bit back a laugh. She could heartily agree with that.

* * *

Sat at a chair by her fireplace, a book in her hands and her shoulders slouched as she read, Molly did not look up at the sound of her door.

"Molly!" Hands grabbed the spine of her book, taking it out of her hands. Molly snapped her head up, staring at her mother.

"What is it?"

"Samuel is downstairs, awaiting your greeting!" her mother answered crossly. Molly rose to her feet.

"He's here? But, the ball was only two days ago—"

Her mother waved a hand, dismissive.

"That doesn't matter. He is here for _you._ You will go to him, speak to him – entertain him – go on dear, go."

Molly nodded, swallowing, folding her hands together against her stomach. Obeying, she followed her mother down the stairs towards the drawing room. Her throat felt dry, her fingernails pressing into her palms. She had expected to see Samuel. That much was true. For him to attend on her so quickly, however, felt strange. Gentlemen, in the books, the stories, waited a week. Not two days.

The doors to the drawing room were opened. Molly paused on seeing Samuel rise to his feet. Her discomfort did not leave her. A man was stood in front of her, and the memories came thick and fast. Despite her memory of the ball, that did not compare to memories of a boy who chased her around his father's gardens until she had stitches and could barely breathe. She briefly scratched at the back of her neck, shutting her eyes. The memories faded.

Seeing her look to him again, Samuel finally addressed her. "Good afternoon Molly."

She breathed easier at the sound of his voice. Clipped, even-tempered, it was far away from the boyish laugh she remembered.

"Samuel," she said, smiling as he approached her. Taking her hand, he gently kissed it, his lips warm against her cold skin. She rubbed gently at her skin as they sat; the sensation still lingered.

In the room, there stood a grandfather clock. Antique, purchased by her father years ago, so her mother had told her. Every tick was slow, rounded in its sound. It echoed in the silence among them. Her mother said nothing, but set about her embroidery. Molly held herself well and said nothing, as Lady Adler had taught her. (She had claimed that if you sat still for long enough, someone else would feel compelled to begin the conversation.)

Samuel's fingers brushed over his knee, tapping out an irregular rhythm.

"I've brought you a gift," he announced suddenly, rising to his feet. Molly quickly followed him, her mother following also, her embroidery deftly forgotten. Molly, sliding her gaze towards the item, failed to hide a smile. On the white cloth was the beginning of a pattern of red roses and green thorns. Not one stitch had been set. She returned her attention to Samuel.

"Would you follow me?" he asked after a silence. He gestured towards the door. "It's in the carriage, you see—"

Molly sucked in a breath, threading her fingers together. "Gladly," she answered. She could feel her mother follow on behind her as Samuel escorted her out of the drawing room, across the entrance hall, out onto the quiet street. In the cool spring breeze, others stood at their doorways, greeting guests and bidding farewell to others, with smiles and handshakes and hugs.

"Please, stay there," he instructed, hurrying down the porch steps towards his carriage. Within one moment, he'd reached inside and turned back to her. In his hands, he carried a small square shaped box. Molly glanced towards her mother. She only gave an encouraging nod.

Approaching Molly, Samuel opened the box as he stopped in front of her. His smile was wide, so eager.

"It's beautiful," she said softly, staring at the gift. The necklace was not new, but an antique. Its ribbon pastel pink, its pendant was an oval. A portrait was carved into the pale stone. The portrait was a woman, young and imperious in her look. An heirloom perhaps. Molly's head swam a little at the thought. She felt her stomach flutter. He perceived her worthy enough to possess something entirely his; of his family.

"I found it yesterday in a shop window," Samuel explained, removing the necklace to hold it in his palm. "And thought of you. So I bought it."

Her panic subsided. She stared again at the necklace, hesitating to touch it. With a breath she picked up the pendant. "That's very kind, Samuel. I – I can't thank you enough."

Samuel bowed his head. "Thank me by wearing it, Molly."

Molly smoothed her thumb over the white stone. It was silly of her to think of childhood. She had to think of the present. For that, she returned his look with a smile. And, later on, when Lady Adler made her visit and noted the necklace with a playful remark, Molly smiled again.

* * *

The letter came to her at breakfast. Her mother's eyes skipped over it as she sipped her wine.

"Who is it from?" she asked. There was little curiosity in the question. Molly supposed it had become something of a routine for her mother, over the last five weeks, to see a footman enter with a letter laid out on a silver tray. Molly flipped the letter over in her hands. Catching the mark of the sender's seal, her smile faded.

"It's from – father's sister."

Her mother's eyes brightened. "Oh! What does she say?"

Molly broke the seal with her thumb, unfolding the letter. She scanned the words, written with an elegant, well-practiced hand. "She invites me to stay with her for the summer – at Greenwood."

Molly found little joy in the invitation. She had spent summers as a child at Greenwood House, and most of her memories were plagued by long evenings of being read the Bible after supper. Her aunt, widowed soon into her marriage, had spent most of her life alone; her days were singularly spent tending to the upkeep of the manor her husband had left her. As such, she was very much a woman who, though warm, did not find in herself the ability to listen to another's opinion (especially on the matter of religion). Molly's mother smiled.

"Just yourself?"

"She says she will be my chaperone. It's funny – I thought this would be a letter from Samuel—"

"Of course you would," her mother said flatly, buttering a piece of bread. "You've been writing to each other for five weeks now. What day does she want you to attend?"

"A – a fortnight on Thursday."

"Well then," her mother said, suddenly bright again, "you must write to Samuel – and anyone else you wish to – to inform them of your absence." Her mother stood, walking towards Molly. She took the letter from her hands, scanning the words. "So she wants you to stay until September. Obviously my sister-in-law feels she hasn't seen you enough."

"Mother, are you sure you want me to go?" Molly asked.

"Of course. I'm sure you'll be missed while you're gone, but it'll be good for you. Get some of that lovely fresh country air." Her mother returned to her seat with a sigh. After a moment, she put the letter to one side. She gave a pointed smile as she bit into her bread. "Just make sure to write to Samuel to tell him of your absence."

Molly struggled to hide a smile. "Yes Mother."

* * *

Announced, Mr Abbot hurried through the doors of the drawing room still in his travelling clothes, his cloak heavy on his shoulders. Drops of rain, sliding from the cloth, soaked into the carpet while he stood at the door. Frances lightly cleared her throat as she stood.

"Samuel," she greeted, bowing her head. "Are you well? You seem rather flushed."

He remembered himself enough to bow deeply to her. "Lady Hooper. I received your daughter's note. Is she – is she to be at Hampshire for the whole summer?"

Frances swallowed a smile. "Indeed," she answered, "but quite fortunately she is not leaving us for two weeks. You are welcome to speak to her, if you wish."

She glanced over to Molly, already stood. Her garment was a plain one, unfortunately, with a modest level of decoration and a pattern of spring flowers covering the cotton material. Without the expectation of visitors, she had tied a shawl of white muslin around her waist to cover her shoulders. It was to her fortune that Samuel seemed oblivious to the relaxed nature of her daughter's clothing. Rather, the look of her appeared to increase his desperation. With a sense of social discretion, Frances made to depart, an excuse light on her lips. The doors closed behind her. For a few moments, Frances hovered at the door, listening to the muffled conversation.

"Your mother didn't answer my question." It was difficult not to smile at the tremble that lined his calm tone.

"My aunt requests my company at her estates until September."

"That – that is an awful long time, Molly."

"It is only a few months," Molly replied, sweet and innocent; sweetness which dripped with truth. A truth which took some people years to cultivate. (With her daughter, Frances thought with pride, it came naturally.)

"But still," Samuel was insistent now, the calm receding, "it doesn't leave me much time… Molly, I—"

Frances' lips widened into a grin. Hope flooded her daughter's tone. "Yes?"

"I shall see you on your return."

Frances hurried back from the door, reappearing as the door to the drawing room was opened. Samuel barely gave her notice as he left, heading back into the driving rain of London.

"Molly?" Frances called, entering back into the drawing room. Her daughter was stood where she had left her but there was little confusion or upset to be found in her features. She fiddled with the hem of her shawl and sat on the sofa. Frances approached her. A book was once more in Molly's hands and she read with quiet study.

She spoke suddenly, not looking up from her reading, saying: "It's alright Mother. Samuel will see me in September, and that's as much as I expected – it's fine."

"No it is not!" Frances snapped, the outburst coming too quickly for her to quash, as if she was nothing more than a distempered child. She sighed, squared her shoulders. "What I meant to say was that I thought – well, it's entirely obvious what I thought. It seemed as if he would. But women have been led along by worse men. Admittedly, your aunt's stipulation that you stay until September does make things difficult, but when you return, we will find you another suitor. How would you like that?"

Frances watched her daughter's silence. For a moment, as her daughter's face remained drawn and solemn with quiet, she was gripped by a terrible fear of visiting her daughter in a convent, forced to witness her only child pray to God for the rest of her life. Then a smile broke onto her daughter's face, her book was lowered into her lap, she tilted her chin up, her eyes sparked with a renewed curiosity and Frances knew her daughter was too good to face such a fate.

* * *

"'My dear Lady Adler,'" Irene began, sat on a chaise longue, the letter tucked between her thumb and palm, "'I was most sorry to hear of your reason for visiting Hampshire. The country air will surely do you good. My doctor often recommends going on long walks when I find myself ill of health'… Hm, no, I'll skip past the doctor bit, she goes on for a while there – ah, here's the important part. 'I am happy to invite you to stay at Greenwood for as long as you wish, or at least until your health is of a better temperament. I am also hosting my niece, Molly Hooper, at my estate over the summer, but she is a lovely girl and shall not bother you too much. It shall be arranged for your arrival in a week's time.'"

Folding the letter closed Irene stood up. Her butler stepped forward, smoothly taking the letter from her offered hand.

"Ready my things for travel and call for the carriage," she said brightly, moving towards her desk. Molly's letter lay open, the seal broken. Irene scanned her friend's words, bemoaning her invitation to Greenwood. "Hopefully the weather will be better in Hampshire."

"The carriage? When do you wish to travel, my lady?"

Irene shrugged her shoulder, standing in front of the window. She stared out at London. The grey March rain stared back at her, rainwater spattered against the glass. Gently she pressed her palm to the cold glass.

Molly had looked upon London with a curious eye, a natural greed to know more about it. By contrast Irene couldn't wait to leave it.

"Tonight, obviously."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes:** _*hangs head in shame*_

 _I know. I promised an update once every two months and I didn't manage it. Real life struck again with severe vengeance, making just the general act of writing fanfiction kind of near impossible for me until recently. I can only promise to get the fourth chapter to you all as soon as I am able._

 _Apart from that - I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! Especially fans of Molly/Irene ;) Also, please remember that feedback, even a favourite, is the best thing ever to happen in this world._

* * *

The carriage broke free of the thick copse of trees and approached the tall iron gate. A scrawny lad of little more than 10 wiped his nose, tilting his chin up. Stood by the gate, he asked who went. Irene pushed open the carriage door. The heat of the braziers stood burning either side of the gate touched four gold coins, nestled in Irene's gloved palm.

"My mistress is asleep, miss." The young man kept a focus on Irene's face. "Not to wake her save for emergencies. People dying, ill. That sort of thing."

Irene slipped the coins back into her purse. "What's your name?"

"Archie, m'lady. I'm not to wake anyone," he repeated.

"Save for an emergency, I heard you. Tell me, Archie – how do you know I am not in an emergency?"

"Well – you're not bleeding, miss."

"And I'm not ill. So how else can you tell that I'm worthy enough for you to wake the household?"

Archie's eyes briefly ran over Irene's own. He shook his head. "I can't, miss."

Irene frowned. The loyal boy blinked back at her, his forehead covered by a cluster of brown curls. His innocence brought with it a lack of naivety that most gatekeepers would have baulked at possessing.

She cleared her throat, digging back into her purse. "I've been invited," she explained, bringing out her letter. "Surely that circumvents any speculation on whether I'm distressed or not."

"My apologies miss. My lady likes me to be extra careful in the summer months." Shutting her carriage door, the boy turned away, running towards the gates. As the carriage entered, Irene stuffed the letter and coins into her purse. The drive was circular, the gravel shape surrounding a stone fountain. Its decoration was indiscernible in the black evening light. Twisted elaborate shapes spoke of both heaven and hell, of both war and peace.

Her carriage came to a stop, and she stepped out. A short set of steps led onto the porch. There were no coats of arms carved into stone above the door, no legacies. Irene knocked twice, loudly and rapidly, and stepped back. On the upper levels of the manor, she saw yellow flicker behind thin velvet curtains as a candle was lit. Behind the front door, she heard calls of panic.

"Who is that calls? Somebody, quick, answer – you, go on! Answer, see who comes!"

A footman greeted Irene, grand and impassive to his lady's panic. His mistress stood at the bottom of the main staircase in her nightgown and robe, holding a cane with one hand and her hip with the other. She peered at Irene through the low light, her eyes pressed together in a curious squint.

"Who is it that calls me?" she said slowly, her voice affected by age, though her demand was clear. Irene removed her travelling cloak, her eyes flicking up to the stairs. She smoothed her palms over her skirts as she approached her host.

"Lady Adler," she answered, taking her host's hand. "You invited me."

Her host's eyes widened. She clasped Irene's hand tighter. "But not for another week, child! I am happy to see you, of course I am, but – but—"

Irene's mouth dropped. "A week? I was sure you wanted me straight away! Oh, Lord forgive me, the inconvenience I must be causing – and to arrive at this hour! – It can't be good for your health – I'll go to town and spend the night there and return to London tomorrow."

"Oh, Lady Adler, if you think it possible, but the hour—"

"Aunt? What's going on down there?"

Meredith headed away from Irene, walking up the stairs. She craned her neck to speak to her niece. "Lady Alder has just arrived," she explained, throwing her voice up into the heavens. "But she was not to arrive for another week!"

Irene walked up the stairs as her host spoke, staring up through the multiple levels. Two floors above them, Molly stood to their left, leaning over the balustrade. She held her robe tight around her waist and held a candle lamp against her features. She peered curiously down the staircase.

"Poor timing on my part," Irene called up. "It seems your aunt has nowhere to put me."

Molly's brow dipped. "I don't see why you should go. We have plenty of rooms here, aunt."

"None that have been made ready," Meredith snapped. "Heavens! What wife shall you make a man if you do not understand a household is run?"

"One that is eager to learn, I'm sure," Irene replied. She looked back to Molly. "Don't worry, Molly. It's kind of you, but I'll find a room in town."

"Why can't you stay with me?"

Irene paused. She focused again at Molly.

Her cheeks were flushed pink from the candle's close heat. Her hair was loose, long, curled into tangles from her sleep. Her skin, against the dim darkness of the sleeping house, was entirely pale. Save for her face, made golden by the lamp. Her pink lips were a rosy red.

"Just for a night," Molly explained. "While her own rooms are made ready. It would save Lady Adler from riding into town so late."

Irene broke into a smile as Meredith sighed and spoke. Irene's eyes remained on Molly until she found herself addressed. "It's far too late to be riding, you're right. Lady Adler – would you share with my niece? It will only be for the one night, as she said. You can move into your rooms tomorrow morning."

She gave a sober nod to her host. "As long as it's only for the one night."

Molly returned to her room. Bid by her host, Irene headed up the stairs. The sound of Meredith's calls for a chambermaid followed her up.

* * *

The bed, an antique, its wood dark and its curtains heavy, stood in the centre of the room. Molly sat, her legs crossed, among its pillows. Silk thread had been used to weave a fine pattern of flowers and branches into the pillows covers. The bedsheets themselves were plain, without opulence. One painting hung in the room. Stationed above the dresser, opposite the bed, it depicted angels without wings. Their pale painted bodies were swathed in brushstrokes of white gauze, serenity carved into their faces as they danced among green woods. With quiet words a chambermaid ushered Irene into the dressing room.

The dressing room door was left open by a crack. Irene craned her neck to look through the sliver of light. She saw Molly.

Her head tilted back as she yawned widely. She stretched up, spreading her fingers wide, clasping her hands tight together before she lay down, her small body stretched out over the width of the covers.

Irene's lips curled into a smile.

* * *

Life at her aunt's moved slower than the life that surged through London. Past the thick glass windows, there were no carriages passing through, no drivers calling out to each other. Every duty was done with silence, everything and everyone put to its place with a bow of the head and short, murmured words.

Molly chuckled and lay across the bed's soft blankets, pulling her robe across her body against the cool temperature. Spring was crisp in the day, but here, the winter nights still clung on. Every morning, she'd awoken to frost and mist descending upon the grassy grounds of her aunt's estate. She'd watched as the sun had come every morning, rising to melt the frost into spring dew and thought of Helios in his chariot, batting away shadows, bringing warmth. Rolling onto her back, Molly tucked her hand behind her head. Her fingers ran small, thoughtful circles against her hair.

In the months she had known Lady Adler, during the lessons she'd been taught by her, Molly had seen a dramatic nature in her friend. A nature which led to a fondness for playfulness and mischief. Molly had loved her father dearly, loved her mother just the same, but there had never been room for mischief. Her father wished her to be intellectual. Always reading, with opinions she felt free to give. Her mother wished her to dress well, to have manners; to know when to speak, and of what to speak. They had been two opposing sides, she the battleground, and no victory.

The dressing room door opened. Molly sat up. Lady Adler entered the bed chamber, dressed now in her chemise and stockings. The maid curtsied and stood to the side.

A chaise longue stood at the end of the bed, the damask pattern white overlaid with black. Lady Adler lay against it, throwing her arm against her forehead.

"Molly, I've had a long journey." A silence. "Remove my stockings for me, could you?"

The silence transformed into a beat.

Molly slowly slid off the bed to stand.

She moved towards Lady Adler.

She was laid across the chaise, drawing the damask pattern with her fingernails. As Molly approached her, she sank further down the seat of the chaise, her legs curving up to her waist. Her eyes were hooded with exhaustion. Her chemise was thin. The hem of it pooled against the edge of her hips. Through the thin white muslin, Molly saw the shapes of her nipples. Her eyes traced the length of Lady Adler's body, settling on the dark patch of hair at her groin, just visible through the thin cotton. She swallowed. Her fingers flexed. Lady Adler wound her long dark hair, curled from a day of being pulled and held in place by pins, around her left shoulder. Her eyes snapped open. Molly looked away, staring down the stockings that went up Lady Adler's legs. They were more toned than she expected.

The stockings ended just above her knee, the tops of them tied with a white satin ribbon. The bow was small and at the side, easy for Lady Adler to undo.

Molly bent down. Her fingers hovered against Lady Adler's left leg. Faint hairs tickled the skin of her thighs, and Molly was struck with how beautiful her friend was.

She clasped one strand of the bow between her forefinger and thumb.

"Gently," Lady Adler whispered, barely a moment away from her but still feeling so high above her. Molly eased the ribbon from its bow. It came to pieces underneath her touch. The satin fluttered against Lady Adler's thigh. Molly repeated the motion with the second stocking. She felt rather than saw Lady Adler's approving smile. Her heart swelled with pride. She sank to her knees.

Her hands returned to the first stocking. The touch of her fingertips against Lady Adler's thigh was akin to feeling lightning in the air during a storm. Her hair stood on end, every part of her skin tingling with something unknown, as she rolled the stocking down Lady Adler's leg. Molly paused when she came to her ankle. A breath held as her palm tucked underneath the ankle. She peeled the stocking off her foot. Lady Adler gently withdrew her leg from Molly's hold, setting it against the chaise longue. Only after Molly repeated the motion with the second stocking did she speak.

"Thank you, my friend," she said softly. Molly lifted her head. Lady Adler sat up, leaning towards her. Molly instinctively leaned closer. Lady Adler's finger tucked against Molly's chin. Her smile crossed with something playful. Molly found some part of her, some deep part of her, wondered if this had all been planned. Lady Adler guided Molly closer with barely a word.

Her mouth on Molly's was light, chaste. Similar kisses had been given to her by Samuel, quick kisses pressed to her hand with every hello and goodbye he had given her. Pain pressed on her.

Lady Adler slid her palm against Molly's cheek and, quite suddenly, the pain in her heart subsided. Lady Adler's glance flicked to the side. The playful smile left her, replaced with a cold quirk of an eyebrow.

"You may leave us."

The door shut behind the chambermaid. Lady Adler drew away from Molly to stand. Her chemise was pulled over her head, abandoned on the floor. Molly watched her naked form duck back into the dressing room with fascination. The feeling grew when she re-entered, pooling between her thighs. If Lady Adler's chemise had been thin, her nightgown was sheer. Lady Adler climbed into the bed. Molly followed.

She was not unused to a sleeping companion. In her youth, up until she was no longer a babe babbling nonsense words, her nanny had slept beside her. Her nanny had been a security, the needed warmth to remind Molly that the nightmares she suffered were dreams that could not find her in reality.

A sleeping sigh behind her, and she felt a hand begin to curl around her waist. Molly froze.

"I shall not harm you," Lady Adler whispered against her ear, her breaths hot and sticky in the clinging winter air. Molly felt a brief chill. Frost was coming, mist descending. Dewdrops would soak into the gardener's shoes as he would work in the dawn.

Lady Adler's hand came to rest at her shoulder. Molly breathed and sank into the touch. Lady Adler's lips pressed a warm kiss to her skin.

"Never quite understood the need for a sleeping companion," Lady Adler murmured, in rumination. Her hand descended towards the hem of Molly's nightgown. She gradually drew up the material. Her fingers danced thoughtfully over Molly's half-exposed back. "Perhaps when a girl is still a girl, yes, but beyond that – seems a bit excessive."

Lady Adler kissed down the space of Molly's back, and the edge of her hip. Molly let out a giggle as she was turned onto her back, her friend's hand once more at her shoulder, pressing her into the mattress. Lady Adler shifted down the bed to kiss the softest part of Molly's belly. Molly's giggle left her at the touch. An instinctive shiver ran down her spine, Lady Adler's hands guiding her legs apart. She was pliant wherever Lady Adler touched her, stroked her-caressed her.

She touched something within Molly that had her shiver become a gasp, a sound that touched the tip of her lips. If they had been anywhere else but here, against the cold, the sound might've crystallised, become a soft cloud of mist, showing her surprise and pleasure for everyone to see. Molly gasped again, deeper than before. Her back keened up, asking for more from her fingers. Lady Adler's features were a half-appraising, half-amused look but her eyes, when Molly looked upon them, were fierce.

Her voice dropped to a whisper as she ran along the length of Molly's collarbone with her fingertips.

"I will not be here tomorrow night,"-Molly whined underneath her—"but I can be."

Her lips returned to Molly's ear. She threaded her hand against the back of Molly's head. Her fingers curled tight against Molly's hair.

"Leave your door open for me?" she asked.

Molly turned her head towards Irene. She was so _close_. Her scent thick, every line and bump and imperfection together in one perfect image. Molly nuzzled the hollow of Irene's cheek. Her answer was easy, floating from the effect of a sigh. "Yes."

Her friend smiled and rolled onto her right side. She lay on her right side, with her hand tucked at the side of her head, her body propped up with her elbow. Molly's sight blurred for a second, the excitement fading into exhaustion. Her eyelids fluttered closed. She felt Irene stroke her hair, and heard her softly urge her into sleep.

* * *

"Ah, my dear!" The arched windows of the breakfast room flooded the room with mid-morning sunlight. Her aunt, powdered and surrounded by the scent of perfume, rose to her feet and pressed her cheek to Molly's in a light greeting kiss. She gestured for her to sit by her side. "Irene did ask for me to send for you, but considering her late arrival last night, and how it disturbed you, I didn't think it would've been wise to have you rise early. My doctor tells me exhaustion can severely affect the health."

Molly began her breakfast with a demurring smile. "That's considerate of you aunt," she said politely, starting to eat. She laughed lightly. "I'm sure my health will thank you in years to come."

Her aunt blinked. She turned to Irene.

"How did you feel this morning? It is a long way by carriage. I've been up to London only a few times – not so much in recent years – and every time I've found the journey far too arduous for me. I found myself greatly disturbed for days afterwards."

"I slept well." Molly's gaze strayed, finding Irene's fingers. They held fine silver cutlery. Her forefingers ran along the spine of the fork and the knife. Each cut she gave was quick, slicing her food into two, and two again. The conversation continued, the words exchanged turning to society conversation, about fashions and balls. Irene's conversation never strayed into the world of scandal. That, Molly knew, was for the shadows.

She had seen her mother, overheard conversations in the parlour after dinner, when the men were away sharing cigars and whiskey. (She had once asked her governess for a taste of whiskey, and it was only after her father caught wind of the refusal that she found herself drinking his glass. The alcohol had burned her tongue, and the scent had given her a cough in her throat. It was the hardest her father had ever laughed.) The parlour room had been a small room, candlelit with pale pink walls and deep, dark red drapes hanging from the narrow windows. A fire, whether it was winter or summer, roared in the fireplace. Tea was laid out on a low coffee table, served by a maid. After tea came the conversation. Her mother's conversations with her friends had stuck for a while to books, to projects undertaken; but soon the characters and victims were replaced by thrilling tales of affairs and betrayals.

Irene's words were innocent, sometimes edged with mischief, her humour often a thread. They were a relief.

"Aunt—"

Both her aunt and Irene turned to see her, and she realised she had interrupted. Molly smiled apologetically.

"May I be excused? I wanted to walk around the gardens a while."

"Oh, well, of course. The architect took inspiration from Capability Brown, you know, when designing the grounds. And make sure to look in on the walled garden. The gardener has put in a new set of flowers; I specifically requested bright colours. They were very much needed after this awful winter."

Molly smiled at her aunt's eager words. "Maybe you could give me a tour, aunt?"

"No – no, flowers make me quite ill in the summer months. My doctor advises me to stay inside as much as possible. But if you ask the gardener, he shall be happy to show you."

"I'll confess it's been a while since I saw the walled garden, Lady Warren." Irene set her cutlery against her plate. Delicately, she wiped at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. The manner sparked with something familiar that drew Molly into a memory of warmth underneath bed covers. She cleared her throat and lowered her head.

"Why don't we explore the gardens together?" Irene suggested. Molly looked up. "Then if either of us show any sign of illness, we can be escorted back to the house."

Her aunt nodded amiably.

"Yes, do. I'll be in the drawing room – and make sure to talk to the gardener!" she added to their departing figures. Molly glanced at her aunt with a kind smile.

"We will, aunt. Take care."

* * *

Greenwood's park stretched on for a good mile or two, a brief unbroken expanse of fresh cut grass. Its scent held in the air. Their footsteps crunched against the white gravel. Irene, Lady Adler, wound her arm around Molly's.

"I can't stop thinking of last night," Molly confessed into their quiet, leaning close to her friend. "It happened so quickly – I barely felt like myself."

Irene shrugged a shoulder. "You were curious. I could see it in you. It's good to be curious."

"No." Irene's eyebrows dipped, but her frown slowly left her. Molly cleared her throat. "That is, it didn't _feel_ like a curiosity. It felt like… as if it was something that should've been done before. Long before."

They rounded a corner in the gravel path, coming to the walled garden. Shallow stone steps led up to a tall iron gate held between walls of red brick. Beyond the iron bars, a stone path lined flowerbeds and a wide central fountain. A grand battle was carved out in miniature, the darkened stone telling of a hero's battle with a grotesque, a monster with curled lip and sharp teeth. At its base, water poured from the hands of desperate damsels, their stone feet touching the lip of the still water. Summer flowers surrounded the grand battle. Stone benches allowed for witnesses to sit and gaze upon the frozen moment.

Molly let go of Irene and pushed open the gate. The garden was quiet. When Irene spoke to her, her tone even, Molly felt a rush of relief.

"You said a lot of things last night – when we were together." Irene's voice took on a softer mantle. She sat on one of the stone benches, bending down behind her. Her eyes lowered towards a sweet pea flower. Her hand reached out and she stroked its lilac-coloured petals. Irene's eyes lifted to find Molly again. "Do you want to take them back?"

Molly frowned.

"No. I don't." She had spoken of not feeling herself when Irene had touched her, had whispered so gently, so lowly, into her ear. She had not spoken of the delight she'd felt at the sensation. The nimbus delights of being taken away from expectation and failed endeavours. Samuel. Molly saw her friend's quiet stare, and sat beside her.

Irene's stare turned examining, glancing over Molly's form. She narrowed her eyes.

"That's what scares you. Isn't it?" When Molly nodded, she raised her hand from the flower. She slid her palm into Molly's, the pads of her fingers stroking against Molly's pale skin. Echoes of the night. (Perhaps promises.) Irene's other hand touched her neck. Her breath trembled. "It's perfectly natural for a woman to love both men and women. And we are away from the world here, my friend."

Molly held Irene's gaze. Her mouth hovered, bottom lip open, her words ready for Irene to hear, to take into her memory.

"My door will always be open to you, Lady Adler."

* * *

Summoned by a maid, Molly dropped into an apologetic curtsey—but her apology faded when she found her host. She stood in the middle of the ballroom. Mirrors reflected the wide circular shape of the room. French doors, at the north side of the room, let in white sunlight. Particles of dust hovered in the air. A small orchestra, her private orchestra, inspected and tuned their instruments, plucking the strings with their fingers. Molly's host smiled and swept down into a bow.

Her black hair was combed back, hidden underneath a dark-coloured wig. A cravat tied loose around her neck, the sleeves of her white shirt were gathered loosely at the cuff. She wore plain green-coloured breeches on her lower half. The appearance of a man, tailored to her form. Lady Adler straightened. Every movement she made was reflected in the polished surface of the mirrors.

If a lady such as yourself is to progress in society, she claimed with a smile of masculine charm, you must learn to dance. Taking a step back, she bowed. The orchestra began. The gesture already learned, Molly dropped into a curtsey, rising to her feet. Lady Alder gave a nod. _Very good._ She took Molly's hand, her waist; and urged her towards the dancefloor.

Irene unfurled her hand from Molly's bare waist, her lips dropping kisses onto her hardened nipple. Molly sighed away the memory of the lesson. Her hands disappeared into Irene's hair.

Thin streams of blue, moonlight, covered their bare bodies. The plain bedcovers underneath them were pushed to the side, leaving only sheets as white as snow. Wingless angels, forever dancing in the wood, were the only watchers. Irene leaned over Molly, her mouth tasting the line of her friend's collarbone. Strands of her hair fell against Molly's small chest.

"I've had many bedfellows," Irene confessed against Molly's skin with heated breath, "but none quite as _eager_ as you, Molly."

"It feels right," Molly gasped into the dark. It felt right when Irene touched at her and kissed her breasts. It felt as right as when she had touched herself, alone in her bedchambers, and imagined a man of golden hair and blue eyes holding her, caressing her as the stories told her he would. Molly whined as Irene kissed her other breast, covering the other with her palm. "So – so right."

Irene shifted down, kissing her stomach where she had kissed before. Molly relaxed, spreading her legs, pliant once more. Already her friend knew her so well.

Irene traced her fingers down and around the path of her thighs. Irene's nails scratched gently against her white skin. Her lips mouthed a kiss to her stomach as she hitched both of Molly's legs over her shoulders. Molly's chest and cheeks flushed pink. Her body tightened, her toes curling against Irene's shoulder blades, her fingers threading back into Irene's dark hair.

Her imagination, when she had been alone and it had been her hands, had never ventured this far. It had always left her with a thrum and an ache. Knowledge that there was more, so much more, to be found. To be taken from her.

"Relax," Irene whispered. Her hands ran with reverence over her body, worshipping. She cupped Molly's sex, sinking a finger into her wet folds. Molly shuddered. Irene moaned. "Oh, you're so wet Molly. I've prayed to God for a lover like you."

It was a separate world, Greenwood, these chambers, and Molly wanted more than anything to drown within it. To be a lost figure, body flailing and desperate, but claimed nonetheless. _Let me be claimed_ , she prayed. _Let me be claimed._

Irene's tongue, clever with words, breached her cunt. She explored Molly's heated centre, licking and sucking at her clit. Molly watched in wonderment as Irene's head bobbed. A pant came up from her chest, she writhed in sweet agony. This was what it was like: to be claimed.

Then Irene inserted a finger, rotating it against Molly's clit as her tongue worked deeper at her centre. Molly bit hard on her bottom lip to contain her shriek of delight. (This might have been new to her, but discretion was not.) Muted grunts came from her still, and her hips bucked. Irene grinned as she withdrew her mouth, wiping at her lips. Molly whined, but her protest bled into a gasp, a surprised giggle, as Irene slid a second finger into her, pumping her fingers against her centre, made so ready and wanting by her tongue.

Molly bucked and fucked herself on Irene's fingers. Each pant, each soft slow moan, filled her ears until there was a pulse at the back of her head. It pulsed with one thought. A thought that Irene whispered against her cheek.

"Come." She kissed Molly, her tongue salty with the taste of her. "Come for me."

"I'm so near," Molly whimpered, her voice a breath. Tears came to her. "Please – please, give me your tongue – whatever you did—"

Irene slowed the thrusts. She tutted, smoothing strands of Molly's hair back from her sweat-soaked forehead.

"That's only for good girls," Irene said huskily, deep in Molly's ear. "Good girls come when I tell them to. Are you going to come for me?"

She was full to bursting and she needed more. Molly wiggled and writhed before the wingless angels, begging so quietly that only Irene could hear, Molly's breath warm on her cheek.

"I'll come, I'll come—" she panted. A deep-throated groan took her.

Molly sank back on the bed, boneless.

Irene withdrew her fingers and rolled over onto her stomach, sighing a contended sigh.

Molly watched Irene's back. Her muscles were relaxed now, but the memory of them taut and flexing as they'd held her thighs, keeping her sex tight against her mouth, remained sparkling in her head. Molly shifted closer and lifted a hand.

She traced a soft line down Irene's back.

Her friend shivered underneath her touch and shifted, turning her head.

Molly continued to draw a line, a pattern that followed the shallow curve of Irene's spine, of her form. She stopped when she came to Irene's lower back. Molly's breath hitched. Irene had released something so new and yet so old within her, something hidden far beneath contradicting educations and opposing opinions.

She changed the direction of the line. Inching up, she curved the invisible line across Irene's lower back. The line stopped at her hip, where Molly cupped it with her palm, squeezing it lightly in question.

Irene rolled onto her back. Her blue eyes were blazing. She spread her legs. She took hold of Molly's hand.

Slowly, she guided it down towards her groin, the patch of small curled black hairs. Under Irene's hold Molly spread out her fingers. With deference, a devout eagerness, she brushed her fingertips over the black hairs.

"Go ahead," Irene whispered.

* * *

Listening to her aunt, Molly half wondered if she should question the validity of her aunt's physician. He seemed, whoever he was, intent on keeping her inside. Away from sunlight, away from flowers, away from the beauty of her own home.

Irene sat opposite her on the rounded breakfast table. Among the food sat a plate of chocolates piled high. As Molly's aunt chattered about her health, Irene picked one out. It was round. She tossed it from hand to hand, feeling its weight before she held it in her right, between her finger and thumb. Innocently, she bit into the chocolate. White cream bled, oozing out of it. Her pink tongue darted out to catch the excess. Swallowing, she popped the rest of the chocolate into her mouth and with a casual turn of her head, Irene watched Molly's aunt come to the end of her conversation.

"I thought I might extend my visit," she announced. "To a period of two months – perhaps three? I admit that my illness is not the main cause. That will be cleared in a matter of weeks, for it is only a common cold. But with the London season approaching, I do need some respite, and Hampshire feels like the perfect place. Of course, my lady, if it is too much inconvenience for you and Molly—"

Irene's words were hushed and dismissed in quick succession by her aunt, who insisted Lady Adler stay for as long as needed. "The most common of diseases can lead to the worst of maladies, my dear," she said sagely.

Secretly, Molly grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** _It's the moment you've all been waiting for! This chapter also contains copious amounts of Molly/Samuel. I'm not sure what ship name to give them, to be honest. Solly? Mamuel? Samolly? Oh, I'll figure it out._

 _I hope you enjoy this chapter and forgive the reference to Richard III. I'm completely, utterly shameless._

* * *

 **June 1786**

There were only a small number of people that Frances Hooper allowed herself to see because of social necessity. Those people, when made aware of the fact, often made great attempts to be removed from that list, for if treated with cold civility with Lady Frances Hooper, you were sure never to be seen at society occasions again.

The latest addition to the list stood before Frances, welcomed but unreceived with nerves etched into his features.

"Is Molly soon to return from Hampshire?" he asked. Frances, preoccupied with her sewing, flicked her eyes up to meet him. They were distinctly cold.

"My daughter made herself clear. She is to remain at my sister-in-law's for the remainder of the summer."

"I understand," Samuel answered, bowing his head. He fidgeted, tugging at the sleeve of his coat. He wore the plain clothes of his profession, little decoration among the brown-coloured suit. "Lady Hooper, forgive me for being so forward, but I have found myself unable to think of anything else but your daughter since she left. I believe – I miss her, my lady. I miss everything about her."

He carried no markers of a lover from those stories her daughter devoured of a day, but Frances knew his predicament immediately. She set her sewing down in her lap. She sighed a smile.

"You silly boy," she murmured. She outstretched a hand, beckoning. Samuel stepped forward and took her hand. Bidding him to sit, Frances twisted her head to focus on him with warm eyes. She slid her hand from his. "You are in love with my daughter."

Samuel fidgeted again. "Yes, my lady."

It was a brave man who admitted so easily his love when confronted with it. Frances shook her head. "My daughter left for Hampshire believing you hold nothing but feelings of friendship for her."

"I never meant—" Samuel began, but he let out a breath. "Is there any way in which I can make up for such a mistake, Lady Hooper? If I could – with your permission – I would marry her the moment she returned to London."

He spoke with care, without waste. Frances hid her delight with a demure smile.

"My permission would gladly be given. Unfortunately, as I said before, my daughter is to stay at Hampshire until September." Samuel appeared utterly stricken at this reminder. Reaching forward, she patted Samuel's knee, as if he were already a son to her. "But not to worry. That can soon be repaired."

* * *

The high doors to the townhouse revealed her daughter. Without a word of greeting or acknowledgement to etiquette, Molly ran forward and threw her arms around her mother's shoulders.

"I got your letter in the middle of supper," she said in a rush, "and Aunt insisted I leave at once if you were so ill as your letter described – but you—"

Molly calmed. Her eyebrows knit together into a frown. Frances stared back at her and fanned herself. Into the silence, she called for the doors to be closed. Molly's frown deepened.

"You aren't ill." A hundred accusations lay among the observation.

"The most miraculous recovery," Frances said, threading her arm through her daughter's, leading her through the entrance hall. "Up and about after being bedridden for two weeks – you must write a letter to my sister-in-law and tell her how wonderful my physician is. But my recovery does coincide with another miracle; I recently had a visitor, my dear."

"Who?"

"Samuel Abbot."

She announced it with little formality as she allowed, but surprise still caught her daughter, draining her features of colour. Under Frances' pointed look, Molly regained her composure. Colour soon returned to her cheeks.

"He has come to welcome me back, I suppose," she said.

"And slightly more than that." If it were a proper courtship, she might not have been so blunt with her words, but the season was almost over. Frances made them pause just before the drawing room door. Pride bloomed in her heart. She stroked her daughter's cheek. "My darling girl – he loves you. Not as a friend, he loves you with his whole heart. I have given my permission."

"You have?"

"He loves you, Molly." Frances drew her into a tight hug, stroking her fingers through her hair. The urgency of her travel meant she was not fully made-up, dressed only in an evening dress and travelling cloak, both wrinkled from the long carriage journey. "I cannot assume your heart Molly," she murmured, "but I know his. He loves you, and wishes to marry you. Go."

Stepping back, Frances turned away and walked further down the corridor. She paused at the sound of the drawing room door.

It shut behind her daughter. Frances breathed a sigh, and continued on.

* * *

 **July 1786  
Three weeks later**

The high ceiling of the ballroom was lined with summer flowers and swathes of off-white silk. Candlelit chandeliers bathed the gossipers and well-wishers in their light. The master of ceremonies stood forward in front of the waiting crowd.

"May I present, Mr Samuel Abbot and his wife, Mrs Molly Abbot."

Applause came as the newlyweds stepped through the ballroom doors. Ladies, swimming in clouds of perfume, congratulated the happy couple with perfect poise, wishing them the greatest health. Gentlemen offered them their congratulations, freer in their speech than the ladies.

Coming back from giving her congratulations, letting her kiss to Molly's cheek linger a little longer than any others, Irene returned to the crowd. A social event much talked about, much discussed, a mixture of dark hues and light shades filled the room. Greens, blues, reds. The white of Molly's gown, the white of the bouquet in her hands, was the only unique gown in the room. Irene brushed a speck of dust from her earth green skirts. She raised her eyes to the rest of the room.

Before her, a dark-skinned woman stood. She wore a dress of deep gold, a compliment to her skin, and her curled black hair was pinned up. A fan dangled from her wrist, made of a deeper shade of gold and the edge was laced with white. A tribute to the bride from someone skilled in the art of high society.

Sally Donovan had fought hard in her life to remain within the circles of society. Her marriage into the society had caused many raised eyebrows. When the circumstances of her birth had been spread around the tight circle to besmirch her name, she had remained present at court and every social function of the season by her husband's side. Irene had, for a time, sided with the disbelievers, and avoided the woman. She had assumed that Sally Donovan would disappear from the memory.

Then Lady Donovan had spoken to her, Irene had seen the determination in her eyes, and had known that society had made a rather spectacular mistake.

"Lady Adler," Sally said with a nod, sipping from a flute glass of champagne.

"Lady Donovan," Irene returned. Sally stood to the side of her, letting a duke slip past with a polite smile.

"You can tell we're in the middle of the season. The rumour mill's circling again. Apparently, you've just returned from a stay in the country." Sally drew back, speaking lowly but with a knowledgeable smile. "How was he?"

Her assumed lover. Perhaps they'd connected her with an earl, or a viceroy.

"And that you made a brief stop in Bath on your way to London," Sally added.

"To see a friend," Irene replied with ease. "And he was – rather like the others. Hardly worth the bother."

Far from the truth, her memory oft recalling blue-tinged nights with Molly's features glowing gold from candlelight, hot wax dripping onto her pale skin, making her writhe, arch and softly beg in that gentle way, as if it would not only benefit her, to be fucked with fingers and tongue, but benefit Irene as well.

Amusement twinkled in Sally's eyes. "There's another rumour going around, you know."

Irene snapped open her fan, tilting it against her chin and fanning herself. Sally continued.

"Holmes is returning to London – under much excitement." Sally scoffed. "It's claimed he's been spending the last two years wandering around Bath, sponsored by a wealthy widow, too young to know better."

"I'm sure husbands around London are ushering their wives away on holidays to the country," Irene said casually. In the centre of the room, Molly held onto the arm of her new husband. Lord Stamford was speaking to them, his face flushed. He and Samuel Abbot carried an easy repartee between them, demanding laughter from the bride. She, obliging creature, was happy to give.

Lord Stamford left after a few moments, called away by another. Molly hugged Samuel closer. He smiled, bent down and kissed her. Irene hummed a tune under her breath, glancing away from the private moment.

It had been a long, long time since she had seen her old friend.

* * *

Hidden among bedsheets, Molly eyed her new husband. Stood at the drinks table, nude, he poured himself a glass of wine. Daylight fell in shadows through the window, settling on him. Prioritising his son's need for privacy, Samuel's father had bestowed upon them the highest guest chamber of the house. Shifting her gaze, Molly let her eyes wander over the landscape. Derbyshire stretched before them. Beyond the large grounds, a valley stretched up out into a steep grassy hill. The high mountains lined the view.

"Only five days?" Molly stretched as she asked the question. Rolling onto her side, she settled her head against her pillow, tucking her hands underneath her cheek. Samuel nodded. He turned to face her.

"I need to go to Bath and oversee a case for Lord Stamford." Taking a gulp of his wine, he threw back the sheets to sit beside her. His eyes smiled as his fingers stroked her hair free from her face. His forefinger paused to brush the hollow of her cheek. "If I get it right – it could mean a permanent position. Would you miss London?"

"I'll be happy as long as you're happy," Molly answered, knowing more than ever that Irene's words had been right. The nights she'd spent with Irene, the days she would now spend with Samuel; they were as perfect as one another. She could never ask for one over the other.

Samuel's hand fell away from her face. Finishing his wine, he set it on the side table. He slid down the bed. Molly rolled onto her back as Samuel wound his arm underneath her body. He felt the small of her back with his fingers.

"In Bath we will be able to create a home," he murmured. His free hand dipped under the white material of the bedsheets to rub low at her belly. "A family."

Molly smiled as her right hand sank against his hair to stroke the yellow strands. She cupped her other hand over his. "A daughter," she replied, interlinking their fingers. "Sweet and blonde-haired. Like you."

She brought his hand to her mouth, her lips brushing against his knuckles to place a kiss.

"A son first," Samuel murmured, sleep already taking him. He pulled his hand free from her hold to wind it around her waist. Hugging her, he tugged her closer. His voice rumbled against her skin. "Strong and wise – wise like his mother."

Locked in her husband's arms, Molly watched the dappled shadows move with the wind. London was her home, the home of her friends and her mother. Bath was a separate world, just as this bedchamber was and would be, for the next five days.

Just as Greenwood had been.

The five days bled into hours. Bidding goodbye to her father-in-law, setting off in their wedding carriage, unused still to her new second name, Molly and Samuel arrived at the townhouse long after the sun had set.

Following her husband in through the door, she greeted all of her new staff with a friendly smile for each. The townhouse itself was not as grand as her mother's, nor as opulent as Irene's. White cherubs with blank eyes decorated the upper corners of the entrance hall ceiling. A wooden balustrade lined a white marble staircase. Landscape paintings, bought, hung along the corridor towards their bedchamber.

The bed came from the Elizabethan era, Samuel told her proudly as he removed her travelling cloak, given as a gift from one lord to another and bought by his ancestor for half its value. He called in two maids, who curtseyed and gave her their names before they undressed her. Molly dismissed them when she was in her chemise.

Her husband sat at a writing desk that stood to the left of the fireplace. Climbing onto the high bed, Molly sat and rolled down the first of her stockings. Letters, already posted to this new home, were stacked in a small pile to his right. Molly slid her second stocking from her ankle. Samuel broke the seal of the first, studying its contents.

She slid off the bed, jumping onto the bedchamber floor. Approaching him she rested her hands on his shoulders, scanning the letter.

"How can it be self-defence if the victim was stabbed through the heart? If you're defending an attack, you can't be that precise." The first rule of a gamble, her father had said, was like the first rule of a hunt. Precision was key.

Samuel started at her words, turning his head to see her. A brief frown appeared on his brow. It disappeared as he folded the letter closed and abandoned it. Standing, facing her fully, he cupped her cheeks and drew her up to gently kiss her. Molly smiled as she pulled away. His hands fell from her face, but she reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him again, deeper.

"Do you have a little time?" she whispered into his ear, voice gentle and lilting. She withdrew one hand from his neck, her fingers dancing down his chest towards his lower torso. "Before you leave for Bath?"

His fingers on her wrist stilled her motions. "We will be together again soon. Once I am settled in Bath – I'll send for you. Mrs Abbot."

"Mr Hooper," Molly replied impishly. Samuel gave her a pointed look. She shrugged in return. "Mr Abbot."

"Better." With a smile he kissed her forehead and stepped away from her. Not looking back, he left the bedchamber.

* * *

The first ball she attended in London was a tightly packed, warm affair. Fanning herself during conversations with ladies and dukes and foreign princes, she accepted every offer of a dance, afterwards avoiding the gentlemen who found it amusing to let their hands wander over a married woman in the midst of a contre.

Molly fanned herself as she spoke to a duchess. Middle-aged, she was surrounded by the usual cloud of perfume, and spoke at length of her husband's adventures in hunting. When Molly attempted to speak about her husband's career in return, she was subtly admonished with kindly advice. "You are young," the duchess said at the end of her advice, tapping Molly's forearm, "you will learn."

"Excuse me." It was a deep baritone voice that spoke, addressing both her and the duchess. "My apologies for interrupting, but I don't believe we've met."

He addressed the last portion of his words directly to Molly, his eyes sweeping towards her. They were a pale blue-green and lingered as he scanned her.

The loose curls of his hair were black. He was tall, a little taller than Samuel, toned, and his clothes were grey. The only winter hue among shades of summer. His singular tribute to the season's fashion was a pattern of navy blue thread, sewn into his sleeves and waistcoat.

He took one step towards Molly. There wasn't anything of study in his eyes, nothing of curiosity. She presented her hand, and he took it. His fingers slid against her palm. His eyes held her, lowering only when he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the skin, just above her knuckle. Molly withdrew her hand.

The man turned towards the duchess, briefly bowing his head. A playful look entered his eye. "Your Grace. Tell me – how is your daughter?"

"Recently returned from the country," the duchess said, suddenly icy. She swept away, disappearing into the crowd. Molly tilted her head and snapped closed her fan.

"You know her daughter?"

The man's mouth twisted into a smile. "I know of her daughter. You, I do not know." He backed away into a half bow, straightening as the next dance was announced. "That needs to be rectified. Would you dance with me?"

Molly nodded, as she had been taught, and offered out her hand. The man's hand returned to hers, and he led her out onto the dancefloor to stand among the line of ladies. His smile widened as he stood opposite her within the gentlemen's line. She had danced with many a stranger tonight, but none had looked upon her with such amusement, such a casual nature. This man spoke to her as if he had known her for years. As if he wanted to continue to know her.

The ladies sank into a curtsey, the gentlemen bowed. The contre formed, the orchestra struck up. The tune was bright, jovial, refined for the society of London. The first active couple came from the far left, dancing a combination down the line. Both portly, drunk on wine, they laughed as they clumsily performed and tripped their way. Molly spied their spouses in the crowd, avoiding the eye of everyone. The next couple were quieter, learned and obvious strangers. The dark-haired man, her companion for this dance, remained opposite her. He appeared fully engaged in the dance, clapping in time like the others, moving down the line as each active couple danced their chosen combination down the aisle. He stepped forward as they came to the head of the line. His hand wound against her waist and held her close, her chest smacking lightly into his. Molly fumbled for an apology. He took her right hand, gripping it tight.

"Follow me."

His lack of warning should have led to disaster, his closeness should have been something she protested; but she fell into his step with instinct, circling and skipping down the aisle, her breath barely able to keep pace.

The dance was finished. Applause for the orchestra surrounded them.

Her fingers relaxed in his hold. Slowly, they tangled with his. Her breaths slowed.

Alerted, Molly stepped back. Her cheeks burned with a blush.

"If you'll excuse me," she said cordially, turning.

She stopped. The applause came to its natural end. His fingers were clasped around her wrist. The gesture was lost among the gathering crowd, coming to congregate with the couples. Men begged for another dance, women sought a new dance partner, or kept their current partner by their side. Gentlemen slipped off into quiet corners to discuss engagements and mergers.

His thumb brushed over her veins, her heartbeat.

"Stay," he began, moving forward and letting her wrist slide from his hold. He did not speak beseechingly, he gave no plea. "I prefer to know the people I dance with."

Molly hesitated, but her laughter could not be stopped. She hid her mouth with her hand, muffling the sound. He joined her mirth with a smile.

With the stone steps of the hall behind her, the grass was fresh underneath Molly's feet. A breeze broke through the humidity. High braziers lit a gravel path lined by clipped hedges and trees, a path down which other couples already walked. Beyond the clipped hedges, sounds of Bath's late evening could be heard.

"We haven't been formally introduced."

Her companion took a bow, his form dropping into shadow. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

He straightened up. In this light, his blue-green eyes were dark. Molly returned his courtesy with a nod of her head and a small smile.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. My name is Molly Abbot," she said, rolling her tongue against the two syllables of her new last name. She loved her husband, he loved her in return and it would fit soon enough. She simply had to keep saying it.

He blinked. A light in his gaze changed, momentarily fading. Molly opened her mouth with her question already on her lips, but his manner changed again, shifting into general curiosity. "And your husband?" he asked, looking away from her in the general direction of the path. "He is not accompanying you."

"No."

"Yes, pity. I did wonder whose wedding was being so discussed tonight—" he turned his head to look at her, "now I discover it was yours."

"They'll stop talking about it when the next wedding takes place."

"Ah, but that isn't for another few months. An autumn wedding, for a viceroy's daughter." They paused along the path. Holmes turned on his heels to fully face her. "Are you enjoying married life?"

She thought of discussions of children. Of Samuel's hands caressing her stomach. His voice rumbling against her skin. "Very much. He is away on business in Bath, but once he is settled, I'm to join him there."

"Hm, that's a remarkable coincidence," Holmes said, with a tinge of humour, "for I'm returning to Bath soon myself."

"Returning?"

"I've spent the last few years there," Holmes explained. They turned, resuming walking down the gravel path. Only a few couples remained, others drawn in by the sound of music and laughter. "I only visited London to acquire apartments, and to attend this. I wouldn't get very far in society if I didn't indulge on occasion."

"So – you're coming back to London?" Molly asked, with little interest. Irene had taught her the art of societal discussion with one simple phrase: _ask people about themselves, and they'll be willing to tell you anything._

"In the winter."

Molly glanced up at the sky. Through tendrils of smoke from the braziers, she saw stars and constellations.

"You'll miss the season," she remarked, turning back towards him. He shrugged.

"So will you. The rumour mill works hard among our society, Mrs Abbot,"—part of her wondered what it would be like to be named Miss Hooper by this stranger—"and I think everyone of note knows of your husband's imminent promotion."

"I don't think I've been congratulated more," Molly replied, turning from the idle thought.

"Could you bear another?"

She came to a stop at his question, fully facing him. She swallowed the need to return his playful smile, bowing her head. "I could."

He took a step, eyes on her and he bent down, gathering her hand into his. "Congratulations to your husband," he said softly. He kissed the bare space of her hand and withdrew. Molly dipped into a brief curtsey.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes."

"My pleasure, Mrs Abbot."

They walked side by side back into the assembly hall, not feeling the need for any further conversation. The orchestra was at rest for the moment, the conversation loud and the crowd crushing. Figures in dresses and suits wandered and squeezed past, throwing greetings and societal apologies over their shoulders and towards friends, acquaintances. A duchess eager to reach her friend pushed past the pair of them as they entered. Molly stumbled. Fingers clasped tight on her upper arm stopped her fall. She looked, and found Holmes staring at her. Her breath held.

"Molly! There you are. Molly, come, we must be going," came her mother's hurried words, hurrying expertly through the crowd. Holmes' fingers slid from her arm. Molly turned and smiled at her approaching mother.

"Mother, I'm sorry if I worried you. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, gesturing towards Holmes.

Her mother dropped into a curtsey. "Wonderful to meet you at last, Lord Holmes." Molly gaped but quickly shut her mouth. Ignoring the mistake, her mother continued. "How are you enjoying London?"

"As much as I did when I first arrived, Lady Hooper. My apologies for keeping your daughter from you for so long. She was a delight to dance with."

"Oh thank you, Lord Holmes. I'm only sorry she couldn't be kept longer, but it is soon to rain and with my illness being the way it is—" she sneezed into a handkerchief, a smooth apology following the motion, "I'd rather avoid it."

Holmes looked aghast. "You're ill?"

"My mother suffers from a seasonal cold, Lord Holmes," Molly explained, hiding her smile at Holmes' exaggerated concern.

"It'll be gone in a matter of days," her mother said.

"If there's anything I can do, let me know. Good evening to you, Lady Hooper." He smirked as he swept his eyes towards Molly. "And Mrs Abbot."

He turned away into the crowd. Molly did not watch him leave. Her hand tingled with the feel of his lips on her skin. It faded to a faint itch which she scratched as she entered the entrance hall of the townhouse. Her mother, tired from the evening, left her with a brief kiss to her cheek and a request for Molly to visit her soon. Entering her bedchamber, Molly smiled. A letter was left on the writing desk, the address written in a familiar hand. Opening it, she scanned the words. With every word, Lord Holmes' eyes finally left her head.

* * *

Friends of her mother came first to visit her once she was fully settled in Bath. Among them were other mothers, seeking husbands for their daughters, and wives for their sons. Their attentions mostly focused on Samuel, sizing him up, as if he were a sample of what their own children might achieve. Some were dukes, members of the aristocracy, acquainted with her mother from when she had been young. Those men scratched their beards and slurped their tea, entertaining Molly with stories about her mother's youth. "Your wife looks much like her mother did when she was her age," they remarked as they shook her husband's hand and bid them both a happy time in Bath.

Molly fiddled with the fork in front of her. The staff, all adorned in lavish uniform and powdered wigs, lay their breakfast in front of them. Samuel sat at the other end of the table, engrossed in a letter. Already he wore the garments of his career.

"How is the case?" Molly asked. Samuel lifted his eyes briefly to find her.

"Nearing its close. It hasn't been announced formally, but – well – the promotion seems ever more likely." His attention returned to the letter, but he looked to her again within a moment. "Are you unhappy?"

"No," Molly answered, "but aside from when we have visitors, I barely see you. If there's something I could do to help with the case?"

Samuel's brow dipped into a frown, the oval shape of his face affected with remorse. He got to his feet, walking around the table towards her. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor. "I – I know I haven't been the best husband so far – leaving you in London to go off to Bath and deal with this case. But once it's done—" Reaching her, he took her hand and wound his arm around her shoulder, crouching until he was in her eye line. "I promise, we'll begin the future we spoke about. Once the promotion is secure, this case over… There will be time. There'll be so much time we'll hardly know what to do with ourselves – and eventually, there will be that son we spoke of."

"And a daughter," Molly whispered, leaning towards him. Their foreheads touched and Samuel breathed a laugh, his mouth stretching into a smile. Pulling away from Molly, he tilted his chin up to look at her. The hand he had at her shoulder moved up to hold her neck. His grip was gentle, a reminder of his presence and the future they had.

"And a daughter," he echoed. He planted a kiss on her lips and stood. "I have to go – but I promise, I'll see you tonight at supper."

The door was closed behind him. Alone, Molly went back to her breakfast with a smile.

It was a few hours after breakfast that she received another visitor. Expecting an elderly friend of her mother's, Molly stood, ready to curtsey and give a polite smile. The polite smile vanished into a puzzled frown as a blonde-haired woman walked through the drawing room door. Much like Irene, she obeyed the rules of fashion while making them entirely her own. Her blonde hair was not the towering wigs of usual high society (that was one fashion rule Molly was not eager to follow herself) but was pinned up with only curled blonde ringlets framing her face. Her blue dress was the desired style but it didn't carry the lace and intricate patterns of Rococo.

Both she and Molly sank into a curtsey to greet one another. The blonde-haired woman spoke first.

"My name is Mary Watson. John and I live opposite you. I'm sorry for not visiting sooner, but some lord or other got his leg injured while off hunting and it's been a battle not to let it get infected. Are you enjoying Bath?"

Mary sank into the sofa, congenial and warm in her manner, inviting conversation. Molly sat slowly opposite her, avoiding her visitor's eye.

"I haven't had much opportunity to explore it," she admitted. "But I look forward to the day that I can."

"I suggest you try the bookshops first. So many medical journals! The owners will try to prevent you from buying them – apparently we ladies do not have the constitution to deal with such matters – but just tell them your husband's in need of them and they'll leave well enough alone."

Molly brightened. "You read medical journals?"

"Partly because I need to, for if John's away—"

"John?" Molly asked, growing more confident in the face of her visitor's manner.

"My husband," her visitor explained. "He's the top physician in Bath, as well as London, and therefore everyone comes to him whether they've got a cough or gout. If you are going to buy a medical journal, by the way, the first one I recommend is Marine Practice of Physik and Surgery. Hard to get, a few years old now, but very useful. Especially when you get lords coming in bleeding from a gunshot wound in their leg in the middle of supper."

Molly let out a laugh into the brief silence. Mary Watson was different, deliberately different, to the mothers and the daughters and the elderly barons, earls, dukes and viceroys that populated Bath.

It was after a long conversation about how exactly to treat an infection and the advances made by medicine, that Mary invited her to attend the theatre in three days' time. Molly accepted without hesitation.

* * *

A medieval world of war engulfed the theatre's stage. Under the light of the chandeliers a queen feared for her life. Little attention was given to her woe, a woe which echoed against the domed painted ceiling. Boxes, above the general audience, were filled with society's best. The ladies attending with their husbands exchanged snatches of conversation with the companions they shared with. Their husbands leaned across between boxes to bid a greeting to neighbours they recognised.

Molly leaned towards Mary, whispering. "Something I'm learning – everywhere you go, there's someone talking."

Someone gossiping, someone murmuring into another's ear of secrets and rumours and overheard stories. Mary laughed. She wore an evening gown of a sharp pink, a little more opulent in its patterning than her day dress but still without the demanded frills and lace. The noise of the crowd increased as more conversation was exchanged.

"Keep that in mind and you'll fit in well."

Behind them, the curtains were pushed back. A footman bowed as he came to a stop before them. He was thin with hollow cheeks and large inquisitive eyes. When he spoke, he spoke with training but the tinges of his upbringing followed his words.

"Lord Holmes requests your company at the interval, Mrs Watson – and Mrs Abbot."

"I'm surprised," Mary said drily before she nodded. She grinned as she spoke. "Tell him we will be there."

Molly examined the curved body of the theatre. Regardless of the exchanged conversations, everything was designed for focus on the stage and the worlds of the stories. The building itself was made into a 'U' shape, the balconies and boxes gilded with gold and the icons of mythology. Molly's focus found its target in a box close to the stage. There were four chairs in a line. Holmes sat nearest the stage, one leg crossed over the other. He wore a brighter colour than their previous meeting, a green overcoat and breeches with a bronze waistcoat, threaded with a dark gold. Holmes had his eyes on the dramatic scene before him. He turned when the footman entered the box, bending down to convey the news to his employer. Holmes' brows arched and his eyes lifted upwards towards the main body of the theatre. He found their box in a moment. Molly acknowledged him with a nod. From the stage, she heard centuries old words of pain. "Ay me, I see the downfall of our house," was the mourning. A flicker of a smile appeared on Holmes's face. He let her go, watching the scene. The second act was coming to its close.

Holmes' footman returned and bowed to them both. Standing, Molly followed Mary as they walked the empty corridors down to Holmes' box.

A gap in the curtains showed Holmes, still watching the stage.

"Mrs Watson and Mrs Abbot for you sir," the footman said, entering and bowing to Holmes. Turning his head, Holmes blinked and stood.

"Oh, yes, of course. Mrs Watson." He bowed swiftly to her. There was a flip of the heavy curtain as the footman stepped outside. Holmes suddenly pressed a kiss to Molly's cheek. She blinked, turning her head to look back at him. He smiled in return. "Mrs Abbot. How are you enjoying the play?"

Molly swallowed. Finally, she returned his smile. "Very well. How are you enjoying it, Lord Holmes?"

On the stage below them, final hopeful words of sanctuary led to the curtain fall.

"It's good enough for an evening." Holmes returned to his seat, settling himself against the plush patterned cushioning. "I suppose Mary has been translating for you all the way through. Oh, please, sit."

"It is easy enough to follow," Molly replied, sliding into the chair furthest from the stage. "'It is a quarrel just and reasonable, to be revenged on him that slew my husband.'"

Holmes' eyes brightened. "'He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, did it to help thee to a better husband.' Do you remember the rest?"

"'His better doth not breathe upon the earth'," Molly quoted in return as Mary sat beside her. Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"This is not your first time seeing it."

Molly nodded. Her attention traced over the general audience below. Some had broken out into song, singing gaily old English songs. An acting troupe had been her introduction. They had passed through the town, a brief stop on their journey towards London, but her father's commission kept them for another day, and he had held her in his lap as they performed for him a comedy. At his command, her governess had taught her the meaning and encouraged her to read the rest. Another addition to her growing intellect, another set of opinions her mother encouraged her not to speak.

"Seems I've found a rival," Mary remarked. "Someone who goes to the theatre because they actually like it."

Holmes tilted his head towards Mary. "That was my joke," he said carefully.

"I borrowed it," Mary retorted. "You can have it back."

Molly watched them. The affection they carried between them was a conflict of teasing and fond. The dynamic an only child might long for. "How long have you known each other?" she asked. "If it's not too impolite a question."

"Since before I first came to Bath," Holmes answered, his eyes lingering on Molly. An innocent question with an innocent answer. Molly stared out at the general theatre again, watching people return to their seats. Her mouth felt dry. A beat pulsated at the back of her head.

"The interval will soon be over," Mary said, drawing Molly to look at her. She took her hand and guided Molly to her feet. "We'd best return to our seats."

Holmes stood, calling for his footman.

"Thank you for your company," he began, glancing towards his footman as he entered. Holmes took Mary's hand and kissed it. "Mrs Watson. Mrs Abbot. Are you as well versed in opera as you are in Shakespeare?"

Molly shook her head. "My apologies, but I am not, no."

Holmes took her hand and kissed it. Straightening up, letting her hand drop from his fingers, he spoke. "Then I hope to see more of you."

Walking through the curtains into the corridor, Molly found herself in a throng of people squeezed together, seeking refreshment and cool air. She felt Mary's hand grip her wrist. Mary grinned at her.

"The worst part of the theatre," she said cheerfully. Holmes' footman went on ahead of them, clearing a path. Mary steered Molly through the laughing, heaving crowd. Holmes' box, as Molly turned her head to look, grew smaller and smaller until, all at once, it was out of sight.

* * *

Dismissing her maids, Molly watched her reflection in the mirror, shadowed in the low candle light. A week gone and her brown eyes danced and shone with the memory of the play. She pouted and gurned, tapping at her cheek. Giving a laugh, she straightened her back and began to unpin her hair. Behind her, her husband sat on their bed in a nightshirt. Letters and newspapers surrounded him. Headlines spoke of his case, cartoons satirising his employer's girth, depicting him as a creature of drooling cruelty with stupid eyes. Molly hated the cartoons as much as Samuel did. She laid the last of her hair pins on the dressing table and picked up her brush. Each curl disappeared as she thoughtfully pulled the brush through the thin strands. In the mirror, she noticed Samuel engrossed in another of the newspapers.

"Apparently that play you went to see was rather good. Makes me wish I went. People might start thinking I'm a hermit. Never to be seen again." He dropped the newspaper into his lap. "Actually, speaking of which – did you see Sherlock Holmes when you went?"

Molly paused. Samuel lifted his head, his eyes connecting with her reflection. "You know of him?" she asked.

"Not especially – but I know his reputation."

Molly set down her brush. "Reputation?"

Samuel narrowed his eyes. "You didn't know?"

When Molly shook her head, he sighed. "Seems he's a scoundrel. I've heard others speak of him. He seduces women, without a care for their husbands or family. And when they are most hated by society, most ready for humiliation – he abandons them."

It was more than rumour, Samuel's words. He spoke with an edge, and as he continued to look at her, that same edge entered his eyes. A warning. Molly realised the look with a jolt. She looked away, fiddling with the line of pins before her. "I attended with Mary," she explained. "She is friends with him, and he requested her company."

"Didn't you dance with him as well? In London?"

Molly flicked her eyes up. Samuel still looked at her. Curiosity had replaced the warning. She breathed, smiled and gave a nod. "For politeness' sake."

Samuel tilted his head. He put the newspaper to one side. Standing up off the bed, he approached her. His hands settled on her shoulders and he bent down, tucking his head against the space above her collarbone. "Enough talk of scoundrels—" He emphasised the word with a comical growl, and Molly giggled, reaching up to caress his left cheek, staring up at their joined reflection. Her eyes fluttered closed, snatching the memory and burying it away.

"Yes. Enough talk of scoundrels," Molly echoed. She snapped open her eyes as Samuel bent his head, kissing her neck. His breath warm on her skin. She sighed into the touch. One hand slowly slid from her shoulder, curving around her waist as he kissed a path up to the underside of her jaw. He nibbled softly at her ear. Her sigh became a deep throated moan. She felt for his hand around her waist and threaded her fingers into the touch, guiding him further down her body.

"We have a future," Samuel murmured. His breath of a promise was hot and wet in her ear.

He turned her chair, its legs scraping against the wooden floor, until the back of it touched the table. He sank to his knees. Without his wigs, his hair was a mass of tangled spikes soft to the touch. A dimple sat underneath his bottom lip, his oval-shaped jaw both boyish and masculine. Molly tipped her head back as he spread her legs, hands shifting up the hem of her nightdress.

Hugging her close to his face, he kissed her hot wet centre and she writhed underneath him, soon coming with a groan and a sigh of his name, her ankles curling between his shoulder blades. Samuel wiped his mouth as she glanced downward at him, boneless in the aftermath. Her hands ran over his hair and down his shoulders.

"Come, my love." He spoke softly, standing and scooping her up into his arms. She held his neck as he walked, snuggling her face to his body. His mouth traced a kiss into her hair. "Let's to bed."


	5. Chapter 5

The final notes of _Giulio Cesare_ 's first act came to a close, and the curtain fell on an image of a mother and child torn apart by war. Molly stood with the rest, and clapped until her palms stung.

"I can only imagine how you will find the second act."

She whirled around. Holmes stood at the entrance of the box, standing in the way of the curtains. He wore a dull blue, threaded with white and silver, while his waistcoat was a plain shade of indigo. Past him, the sound of the gossip and impatience of the interval grew.

"Holmes!" The snappish call came from behind her visitor. Molly exchanged a glance with Mary. Holmes, smirking, stepped to one side as another entered the box. He wore a grey wig, though his handsome features were as young as any bright-eyed fop in the audience. His clothes were an ordinary colour of summer. His dark brown eyes were reproachful as he bowed.

"My apologies, ladies. Holmes insisted on surprising you, though I don't have a clue why."

"Usually he doesn't have a clue about anything," Holmes remarked slyly, earning a sideways glare from his friend. "Mrs Watson, Mrs Abbot. This is my associate, Lord Lestrade."

"Lord Gregory Lestrade. Pleased to meet you ladies," Holmes' associate said, bowing his head to the both of them. Molly and Mary gave brief curtseys. "Are you enjoying the opera?"

"Perhaps more than I enjoyed my first visit," Molly admitted.

"Considering the surprise which with you greeted us," Holmes remarked, "you were certainly engrossed. My footman arrived earlier to ask if we might be received."

Molly blinked. "Did he?"

"I said yes," Mary explained. "I was going to tell you but I'm afraid – I became like you. Engrossed."

"Of course," Holmes ventured, "if you do not wish us to remain, we can leave."

"No, no. Please, you can stay," Molly replied, her answer finished before she could register it. "Will you sit down?"

The four of them sat, Mary sitting beside Molly, Lestrade sitting behind Mary, Holmes settling himself behind Molly.

"How are you enjoying the opera, Lord Lestrade? Though you asked us our opinion, we didn't ask for yours. Very remiss of us," Mary said. Molly watched the audience. More than half the seats were empty. The ones who did remain were elderly and snored gently, their heads lolling back and snapping quickly upwards as they woke.

"Opera isn't normally to my taste, but it passes the evening," Lestrade remarked, with a grin.

"Mrs Abbot, might I be permitted to make a morning visit to you?"

Molly started, turning in her seat. Holmes straightened. He leaned further forwards, folding his arms across the back of Molly's seat. Molly cleared her throat. Every word of her answer weighed with the force of Mary and Lestrade's polite interest.

"I – I suppose I could receive you, Lord Holmes." Her mind wandered into a night of passion, her husband's mouth on her as he promised her a future with no talk of scoundrels.

The flip of the curtain announced Holmes' footman.

"Milord, the interval. It's almost over."

"Oh yes." Holmes jumped to his feet, quickly bowing to the two of them. Lestrade followed suit. Bidding them goodbye, they left.

"Funny." Mary's chin was tilted up, her forehead lined with thought. She looked to Molly. "I heard he was to return to London tomorrow."

"Tomorrow—?" Molly began, but the curtain rose as the orchestra struck up and the query was forgotten. Down below, in the guise of a civilian, a queen seduced an emperor.

* * *

Tomorrow came without hurry. Molly woke with her cheek pressed to her husband's chest. Her eyelids fluttered open. She yawned softly. Tracing her gaze up, her fingers threaded through the light sprinkling of hair across her husband's chest. Still sleeping, he breathed softly and gradually.

The doors to the bedchamber opened. Maids entered. One attended to the fireplace. Two drew a bath. Others attended to the clothes. Molly settled her cheek back against her husband. Her fingers drew circles into his shoulder. A red-haired maid was deciding a set of choices for Samuel. She was short, average in her weight. Her natural red hair poked out from underneath her cap in springs of curls.

Her face, set into hard thought, was plain. Her dress was basic cotton, a bright green its colour with a white apron around her waist and shawl tied around her shoulders. High society would drape her in jewels and fine silk and lace. Her name filtered into Molly's memory.

"Winifred," she whispered. The red-haired maid looked up. She immediately dropped into a curtsey and bowed her head.

"Ma'am."

"Give him the brown," Molly murmured, careful not to wake the still sleeping Samuel. Outside, Bath was waking. Winifred curtsied again.

"Thank you ma'am."

"Ma'am?" Another maid made Molly lift her neck up. She looked over her shoulder. A black-haired girl, barely sixteen, curtsied. "Your bath is ready."

"Bath?" Samuel stirred. He rubbed his eyes free of sleep. Molly sat up, making room, but Samuel clasped her around the waist, dragging her back towards him. Molly shrieked with laughter as he drew the bedsheets over them both, clambering on top of her, straddling her. His eyes were bright as he pressed his elbows at either side of her head.

"My wife has got no time for baths," he announced, lightly rubbing his nose against hers. He ducked his head up out from underneath the sheet. Molly wriggled underneath him, giggling. "Go on – on to your other duties. I'll attend to my wife myself."

He returned to her with fervour, dipping his head towards her neck and kissing her. Molly moaned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. His teeth sunk against her skin, sucking. Brief though it was, she yelped. She pulled back from her husband. Samuel looked sheepish.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted – wanted people to know that you…" His hands wandered, his thighs relaxing. His hands caressed her body. His thumbs brushed over her nipples. Molly groaned. " _You_ are my wife."

"Your wife," Molly repeated in a whisper. Samuel's mouth fell down her body, warm kisses at her collarbone, her stomach, and her hips. Later on, when her husband was dressed in black and gone to court, Molly bit back a smile as he dropped a kiss to her damp hair, bathwater covering her breasts.

Tenderly, sinking down to lie within the warm water, she stroked the path of her neck down to the valley of her breasts, the path Samuel's mouth had taken. Her happiness thrummed at her touch. She loved him, she knew. She could never want another.

* * *

"You have lied to me, Lord Holmes."

Sat in an armchair in her drawing room, one leg crossed over the other, an hour into his visit, Holmes met her accusation with a surprised blink. His hands, pressed together underneath his chin, lowered into his lap. He tilted his head. His blue-green eyes narrowed. Sat in her husband's chair opposite him, Molly looked back at her book.

"You're surprised," she said into the silence. "At my accusation."

"Not at all," Holmes responded lightly. "I'm accused of lying quite frequently."

"People must have some probable cause to accuse you of it," Molly said. Her focus remained still on her book. It was a thick volume, well-loved and well-used with smudges in the ink, notes scribbled in margins. Her own handwriting, made in the dark by moonlight as her husband slept, reflected back at her.

Holmes scoffed. "Not at all. Society finds every way to mark innocence with sin. Admittedly, in the past, I've found it – an advantage, in some situations, to bend the truth. Overall however, I'm not the great liar people like to believe I am."

Molly turned a page of her book. She no longer registered the words she saw before her. "I wonder what those situations could be, Lord Holmes."

Holmes made a low sound at the back of his throat. Molly glanced up. He was leaned back in the chair, his hands returned to their place underneath his chin. His inquisitive look matched hers. A corner of his mouth flicked up. "You've been warned of me."

"I've only been told what society says of you."

"And do you know what society says of you, Mrs Abbot?"

Molly's thumb stilled against the top corner of her page. Her attention was fully on Holmes. For a moment, she felt as if the floor below them were a chessboard, and they were both pieces. A knight, weaving its way around the board. A queen, with everywhere and nowhere to go.

The illusion fell away with a minute shake of her head. Holmes shrugged.

"Neither do I. Now, what lie have I told for you to accuse me?"

"Mary heard it said that you were to return to London today." Molly's mouth twitched at the simplicity of her reply, and the confusion of Holmes' reaction. He hid it with a laugh, his teeth showing between full lips. He rose to his feet, standing by the unlit fireplace.

"Another mistake of society. I'll still be returning to London in the winter. London in the season isn't for me."

Tilting her chin up to fully see him, Molly's mouth widened into an amused smile. "You're missing out on a great deal, Lord Holmes."

"Then why aren't you in London as of now, Mrs Abbot?" He aimed a piercing, knowing look at her, a reaction exaggerated to such a point that Molly struggled not to guffaw her amusement.

"Alright. I concede the point," she said, and she resumed her book. Skimming the familiar words, lingering over the diagrams, she heard footsteps gradually approach. Holmes' breath tickled the strands of her hair.

"What are you reading?" he asked. Molly closed the book, tilting the cover towards him and twisting her head to find him.

His profile was a mixture of soft and hard. The back of his jaw was angular, a perfect set of lines that set off sharp cheekbones. His nose was well-proportioned, curving into a deep Cupid's bow that trailed down into full lips. Holmes frowned.

"This is an old edition," he said, plucking the book from Molly's hands. "You're much better off with my copy. I'll get Wiggins to send it round for you one afternoon."

He returned the copy to her. "Rare, I'll confess, to discover a woman of your rank to take interest in academic subjects. It makes sense for Mary Watson to take delight in such volumes – but you, Mrs Abbot. You've barely a quarter of that book left."

Molly bristled. "It's perfectly common, even among women of my rank, to take interest in medicine and science and history." Rising to her feet, she turned to face Holmes. "We were taught to read, after all. Isn't that the start of curiosity?"

"I disagree. I was curious about the world while I was still in my mother's womb. And, if you met all the seasonal women in London, Mrs Abbot, I've a feeling you'd begin to agree with me."

A flash of teasing shined within him. Molly sighed, slipping past him, approaching the bookshelves. They stretched along the left wall of the drawing room. Molly put her book away and glanced over her shoulder towards him.

"You are prejudiced, Lord Holmes."

Holmes moved closer, tilting his head. "Tarnished by my years of London society?"

"Perhaps."

Holmes grinned. "Perhaps then we should agree to disagree."

He bent down, taking her hand. Turning her wrist, Molly withdrew it.

"I can't agree with a man who is wrong."

Holmes blinked.

"Who could you agree with then, Mrs Abbot?" he asked after a silence. "A man who obeys your every whim?"

"A man who has his own opinion," Molly replied.

"But not an opinion which is wrong?"

Molly suppressed a blush. "That was rude of me, wasn't it? My apologies, Lord Holmes."

" _My_ apologies, Mrs Abbot." He took her hand again, raising it to his lips. His Cupid's bow hovered above her knuckle. "What I said," he said quietly. His thumb rubbed soft, considered circles into the base of her palm. "It was wrong of me. Forgive me."

A faintly warm shiver found her.

"You're forgiven," she murmured. Holmes let her hand fall back to her side. The artful manner of him returned. It was similar to Irene. The both of them possessed a fault that found humour in the simplest of things.

"I must try to temper my thoughts around you, Mrs Abbot, if we meet again. Otherwise I might never be able to leave."

That was the difference. Irene did not seek danger.

"I've said something wrong." Holmes' remark pulled Molly's attention back to him.

"You didn't manage to temper your tongue quickly enough, Lord Holmes." She stretched her lips into a polite smile. "That's all."

"Then let me beg forgiveness again." He kissed her hand. "Might I be permitted to see you tomorrow morning, Mrs Abbot?"

In the past, some had stretched her mother's surname into its two syllables with societal worship. Usually as they thanked her mother for such a rich dinner. Servants would have dropped the 'H', mumbling the name with shuffling feet and bowed heads. Abbot had such little room for change.

"You may," she answered with a manner already learned from the mothers, daughters, and dukes of Bath and the society of London. Holmes left with a bow.

* * *

Overnight, a cold descended upon Bath. Winter biting into summer, it came with harsh wind and hard rain that spattered against pavements. Grey clouds thundered. Sat before the roaring fire in her bedchamber, Molly devoured the last of her book, her legs curled up to her chin and her feet tucked underneath the warm bedsheets. She flicked her thumb underneath the penultimate page. The final page contained a summary of all that had come before, noting alternative recipes for cures if the ones already written failed to work.

On the top of the fireplace mantel, a clock from 17th century France struck twelve.

A parcel entered her field of vision. It was presented on a silver plate and was roughly the same shape as her book. It had been twice wrapped in thin purple paper, a velvet black ribbon securing the parcel in a tight knot. Molly picked the parcel up with both hands, dismissing the footman with thanks. She slid her fingers underneath the velvet ribbon and pulled. The tight knot gave way. The thin purple paper slid onto the book's final page. In her hands she held a crisp, clean copy of her book. She flipped through the pages. There were no notes, no corners folded down or bookmarks made. The ink was fresh, and the book was newly bound.

"Oh," Molly breathed. Her fingers caressed the pristine words. Distantly, she heard the front door open.

"Welcome sir," said the doorman.

Snapping the old book, filled with its notes and smudges, shut, Molly pushed the purple paper and ribbon to the floor. Coming down from the bed, she picked up her old book and hurried towards the writing desk. Fitting each one into a single drawer of the desk, she returned to the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her palms itched and her fingers trembled.

When she slept, she dreamt of black ink and white pages.

* * *

She woke to feel a warm breath on her neck. The weak purples of dawn were beginning to break beyond the window.

"I'm sorry it's so late," Samuel murmured into her ear. Molly rolled onto her back to see her husband's face. His wig was already removed, the yellow spikes of his hair fluffed and mussed. She threaded her arm around his waist.

"It's okay," she mumbled sleepily, pressing a dry kiss to his temple. Samuel's hand lowered down the length of her body, stroking determined circles into the space of her upper thigh. Molly sighed.

"No nasty surprises while I was gone?"

Her gaze flicked towards the writing desk. She shook her head. "None at all," she said, with idle calm. Her husband's hand slipped further up her thigh. She squirmed at his firm, sudden strokes of her clit.

She pushed his hand away. He paused, his brow dipping with the force of a frown. She gave a small, brief smile. "I'm tired," was her explanation. She rolled onto her side, out of her husband's hold. She pulled the sheets over her body. Her throat felt dry.

* * *

"Lord!" Molly jumped at Mary's sudden exclamation. "I forgot to tell you. John and I are going back to London."

"You are? Very soon?" She spoke lightly, conversationally, but Mary chuckled as she picked out another book from the shelf, pressing it into Molly's arms. They stood among books, spines of volumes detailing unique medical cases and strange deaths. A musky scent hung, none of the volumes new but second-hand, worn and torn and their leather backings scratched. They were nothing like the edition she'd let herself touch and read before her common sense had returned, with its thin crisp-white pages and fresh black ink.

"I like Bath enough, but – well – I need London. My only regret is that you won't be able to come with us." The pads of Mary's fingers brushed over a thick medical history volume, its backing an emerald green and its pages a crinkled yellow.

"Hopefully I'll be able to visit," Molly said. To lose such a good friend as Mary, one who had sat by her side and giggled at society's quirks, was a small grief. She wouldn't wail as she had done with her father, wouldn't scream for them to come back. All she would do was hope their paths might cross again. Mary grinned.

"That'd be good," she said.

"How many women have you met? In London society." She didn't want to think of Mary alone without anyone to speak to. She was the sort of woman who deserved to be listened to.

"Oh, plenty," Mary replied. Molly glanced at a thick volume, a dictionary of rare illnesses, and added it to the pile in her arms.

"Do they enjoy these kind of subjects?" she asked, imagining Mary trying to converse with an elderly duchess fixated only on her children's upcoming marriages. Mary nodded.

"One woman I know could tell you the entire timeline of every English war fought off by heart, if you asked her. Anyone who says different clearly doesn't know women very well."

* * *

Carrying her books, Molly stood at the door of the townhouse and knocked twice. A footman opened the door and bid them come in, asking them to wait. Soon returning, he gave his master's consent for them to enter upstairs into the drawing room.

It was a place that was both kept and unkempt. Odd trinkets scattered the window sills, while paintings of war and romance and politics hung in plain wooden frames on the wine-coloured walls, lining a path up the staircase. The drawing room was coloured a pale blue, its decorations Palladian, function more than fashion.

The white fireplace was ornate. Chairs and sofas were lined in a dark blue, striped with a dark grey. More trinkets covered side tables. Papers covered the surface of a writing desk. A mirror, framed by gilded silver, hung above the fireplace. On the ceiling, Helios pulled his carriage along the length of the earth. Heavy drapes hung at the windows, daylight shining through the clean glass. The window seats were the only bare thing in the room.

"You still give your servants vails?" At Mary's question, Molly looked up from her examination of a skull that stood on the fireplace mantel.

Clutching a small coin purse, his footman bowed to the room. His large eyes strayed briefly towards Molly. He bowed his head again and departed. Shifting, threading her fingers together, Molly focused on Lord Holmes. Seeing her, he smiled before looking back to Mary.

"Despite current views on it, I find that salary alone does not guarantee a servant's loyalty," Holmes explained, still carrying his grin.

"Have you ever thought of increasing their salary?" Mary asked.

Sherlock settled into a high-backed chair. "Vails are cheaper."

Molly felt herself smile, the feeling impish, teasing. "We didn't come here to discuss vails with you, Lord Holmes."

"Did you not?" he asked, his tone matching her.

"Mrs Watson has met the society women of London, and she agrees with me."

He registered her words with brief puzzlement. It grew into a second smile, a smile that touched the left corner of his mouth. It was less playful as the first. It was a smile she found in Samuel when they were together, his breath hot on her cheek as he moved inside her.

Holmes stepped forward and bowed his head.

"Then I concede." He bent down and pressed a sudden, lingering kiss to Molly's cheek. Her smile faded. Her heart missed a beat. That single beat frozen in the moment of his warm mouth on her skin.

"Oh, it's starting to rain," Mary said. Molly blinked. Holmes straightened up. The two of them turned. Silvery ribbons of water spattered against the glass, racing each other down converging paths.

Fingertips brushed Molly's palm. She twitched at the feeling, glancing up at Holmes. His hands were folded behind his back.

She looked to Mary, who held her hand tighter, a wordless urge to depart. Mary smiled kindly to Holmes. "Good afternoon, Lord Holmes."

Letting go of Mary's hand, Molly repeated her friend's sentiment and bowed her head, walking out of the drawing room and down the stairs.

* * *

"I'll visit soon," Mary said cheerfully. "Conditions of patients permitting, obviously." The rain pattered against the roof of her carriage. Mary drew Molly into a hug of goodbye. Molly found herself managing only a slight smile. Bidding her friend goodbye, she climbed out of the carriage.

Sunlight reflected off the wet pavement, the warm rain spattering the material of her cloak. Tucking her books under one arm, Molly pulled her cloak over them as she headed inside. The house was quiet. One footman took her cloak. Another took her books. Taking a breath, brushing herself down, Molly ordered for the books to be added to the drawing room. The footman bowed.

Up the white staircase, she walked. Her footsteps were quick, her shoes clicking against the marble. She passed the purchased landscapes, fields of spring darkened by the shadows of the continuing rain.

Once Mary had left, she might possibly find other friends. There were plenty of ladies in Bath, married and unmarried. She could do what Mary had done for her. She could take a new arrival into Bath, take her to the theatre and the opera, show them the bookshops and drink the spring waters with them. She could be their friend and their guide, watching gossip unfold and business be agreed upon.

A door opened. She looked up.

The girl stood before Molly's bedchamber door. She was thin, without curves. Chunks of her dark brown hair fell from her bun. She clutched her plain dress to her front. Her white cap was clutched between naked fingers. Molly's breaths shortened, growing shallower by the moment.

The maid curtsied.

"Y-you…" Molly cleared her throat. Her gaze dropped towards the floor. "You may go."

The maid's bare footsteps made little sound as she scurried down the corridor, slipping past her mistress. Molly's hand fluttered to her stomach. Nausea made her vision swim and thrummed inside her head. She stumbled; her hand caught the handle of the door.

"Who's there?" Her husband's muffled voice drifted from inside the bedchamber.

Her vision cleared. Her grip on the door tightened. She turned her wrist.

The door gave way.

Her husband lay on the bed in a nightshirt only. His wig was abandoned haphazardly on the floor. His blonde hair was mussed. He drank wine from a crystal cut glass. As she entered, he smiled and put his wine to one side. He stood up from the unmade bed and walked over to her.

"I missed you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. His hands wandered down to her waist, her hips. "Was your day good?"

"Is she your mistress?"

Her question was a flat quiet. Samuel blasted out a laugh.

"Heavens." He flicked up a grin. It seemed to her mean and spiteful. His hands curled around her hips. He tugged her closer. "It was nothing. Come now. Let's to bed."

He had used the girl, the servant, for satisfaction. No lust, no love behind it. Bile stuck in her throat, stinging as she tried to swallow. Samuel's grip tightened, manoeuvring her towards the bed. Her legs touched the foot of it, her shoulder tucked against the wooden post. Through her skirts, she felt his half-hard cock pressing against her thigh.

Firmly, she pressed her hands to his chest. "I won't share this bed with you."

Samuel's crack of a smile fell. His left hand remained on her hip. His right came to her neck, slipping and sliding up to her jaw. Molly jerked her head away. The hard wooden floor looked back at her, engraving its pattern into her head.

"I won't share this bed with you," she repeated. Her tone was sharp, venom rising to the surface.

"It meant _nothing_ ," Samuel replied. His fingers sank further into the material of her dress. His right thumb stroked the hollow of her cheek. "You think I'd risk our future for some servant girl?"

She lifted her eyes to meet his. Samuel laughed again.

"Fiend seize it!" Both his hands cupped the sides of her face now. He brushed his fingers through her hair. "The girl meant nothing, Molly. How many times must I repeat myself? You are my wife, and I love you. It was nothing at all. It's like that ridiculous flirtation you had with Lord Holmes. I knew you'd come back to me in the end."

Trembling, Molly grew still. Her eyes narrowed. "Flirtation?"

"Yes. Back in London. I know what happened there, Molly. What, did you think you could dance with another man in the way you did and not have it noticed by society?"

Molly drew Samuel's hands away from her face. She slipped out of his reach. She wandered the length of the room. Her hand wobbled, her bottom lip trembling, as she sank into her dressing table chair.

"I danced with him for politeness' sake," she said calmly.

"And acknowledging him at the theatre?" Samuel scoffed. "Spending time with him at the theatre? Letting him visit each and every morning this last week? _That_ was politeness?"

"Yes it was!" Molly shouted. She shot to her feet. "Why should I flirt with another man? I love you!"

"And I love you," Samuel replied, again calm and smiling. "So come, let's to—"

" _I will not share your bed!_ " She snatched her arm from his grip. Tears spurted in her eyes. "Are you blind? Oh God! This isn't a game! You can't fuck someone else in our bed, in our home, and then expect to take me as well!"

"How do I know you haven't?"

His accusation had the precision of his occupation. Molly felt deathly cold.

"What?"

"It is quite clear to everyone, Molly, excluding you it seems, that Lord Holmes wants you." Molly blinked. A shiver trailed down her spine. Her cheek tingled with the memory of a lingering kiss. Samuel's words came again, biting, stinging. "I am not here when Lord Holmes makes his visits. Am I? I hear of his coming, I hear of his going. How am I to know that you have not taken him into this bed and fucked him too?"

Every word was a numbed struggle. "He visits me – for politeness' sake."

"Politeness! Every time! Is it politeness that draws him into our bed, that makes you fuck him every time my back is turned? We are married, Molly. Marriage demands loyalty."

Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I am loyal."

"You are not loyal," Samuel growled, a snarl in his lips. "You're his whore."

Bile rose back into her throat. Clapping a hand over her mouth, muffling her cry, Molly ran from the bedchamber. Her husband did not stop her.

* * *

The rain came in drops now, the sun faded behind dark clouds. The raindrops splashed on the pavement, intrusive to her ears. A butler finally opened the door, standing before wine-coloured walls and paintings of war. He bowed.

"Mrs Abbot."

Molly drew the hood of her cloak back, hurriedly wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry," she began softly, rain soaking her skin and hair, "but I—"

"It's perfectly alright," the butler said, standing to one side. "I'll fetch my master. You can wait in the drawing room."

Molly stepped out of the rain into the entrance hallway. In her gleeful visit before, she had not paid much heed to it. A bookshelf stood by the staircase, and there was little else. Only the hanging portraits up above. Approaching her, a footman took her damp cloak from her. She shakily thanked him. He guided her upstairs towards the drawing room with wordless gestures and a single bow, shutting the door behind her.

Shadows of rain crossed her face. She should not have known the layout of this place. She should not have been able to walk the path of the staircase quicker than a footman who traversed it every day. She shouldn't have known that a human skull, possibly centuries old, stood atop the fireplace mantel. Numb, she stared at the white and black damask wall covering.

The drawing room door flung open. Molly automatically jumped to her feet, ready to greet the arrival. Holmes wore a dressing gown of blue. His hair was tousled from sleep. Molly turned round.

"I'm sorry, it's too late – I've disturbed…" In the corner of her eye, Holmes came to stand beside her. Slowly, Molly faced him. She lifted her eyes to meet his. They were blue, shaded with green, and kind.

"You're crying." He said it without malice, without concern. Just as a cold, hard fact. A truth. Molly touched the pad of her forefinger to her cheek. A teardrop rested at the tip of her finger. It trailed down her skin, wrapping itself around her finger, falling into her palm. She dropped her hand down to her side. It clenched into a fist.

"I didn't know where else to go."

"Mrs Abbot—"

"Don't call me that. Please don't call me that," Molly begged, whispering the plea.

"Molly," he said. "Sit down. Tell me – tell me what's wrong."

Holmes crouched down before her. His hand touched her knee. He was obedient, gentle and kind and all without question. _Lord Holmes wants you._ He could not want her. Scoundrels, the ones who had their stories told, always wanted something. Power, money. Notoriety. All she had was a marriage.

"I knew men took mistresses," she confessed, her hands pressed together, her head bowed. Holmes' hand did not move from her knee. "But I believed that he – he wouldn't. He – I saw her. A servant girl."

"Your husband," Holmes said. His fingers slid from her knee. "He clearly didn't see your worth, if he was willing to abandon you so cruelly."

"Abandon," Molly echoed softly. She found his eyes again.

His right hand slid into hers. Hesitation flickered in his features. His eyes changed, dulling with the thought of a decision. The hollow of his cheek twitched with the movement of his mouth as he attempted to speak. Of his left hand, his forefinger drew a line against her jaw, sweeping up to her cheek. He wiped the tears away. The lightest touch and yet it held to her skin like scars.

"You are not a fool. Molly."

Mary would tell her that. Mary would curse her husband, and hug her tight.

Molly's arms threaded around his neck. She clung to him, her forehead tucked against his shoulder and she breathed. The sound was fragile like thin glass, already cracking and waiting to break. The cool room warmed as his arms lightly held her waist. She pulled herself closer to him until she was sat on the edge of the sofa, her knees touching his, begging for a gap so she could slide into him, hold herself tight and never let go of the security, that slow steady pulse of her heartbeat. The growing deepness of each breath.

She lifted her head and faced Lord Holmes. His face was centimetres from her. His full lips took a breath. Samuel's snarling lip, growled words, entered her mind's eye. It was a faint image, faint like smoke, shimmering like water. Words of goodbye were ready on both their tongues.

She pressed her mouth to his.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** _Well,let's see how that cliffhanger has resolved itself - after all, every end needs to have a beginning, doesn't it? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this_ chapter, _and don't forget to leave a review or a favourite or a follow if you liked it! Just going to say a massive thank you to everyone who has read this far, your feedback and support means so much to me, more than I can say really 3_

* * *

Fingernails clutched tight at the fabric of the bedsheets. Hips arched, up, up, taking all they could. Pink lips dropped open, panting heavily, a moan on the tip of a tongue.

Knuckles rapped on the bedchamber door. Irene lifted her head out from the bedsheets, glancing round.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Letter for you ma'am," said the entering footman. "From Bath."

"Ah!" Kate groaned as Irene sprung from the bed and wrapped a robe around her body. Irene jogged towards the door, breaking open the letter's wax seal. "A letter from Bath," she said brightly, "must mean news."

She dismissed the footman as Kate slipped out of the bed, throwing herself on a pale green chaise, settling her head against its pillow. Irene scanned the letter. A scoff came up deep from her throat.

"At long last. I thought it might never happen. Listen to this. 'I saw her carriage approach from my window on the upper floor and instructed the butler to wait a while before answering. When I went down to greet her, I put on the pretence of being just awoken.'" Reading, Irene climbed onto the chaise longue and settled between Kate's open thighs. The courtesan reached up, brushing her fingers through Irene's black curls. Irene pressed a dry kiss to the arch of her shoulder. Her attention slid back towards the letter as her hands explored the courtesan, drawing two fingers against her folds.

"'She was in a quiet manner of distress when I walked in, on the edge of tears." She sunk a finger into Kate's wet centre. Beneath her, Kate moaned and begged with soft curses. Irene flicked a grin. "'The truth soon came. She'd caught him with one of the household maids, which sums up his character completely: unoriginal, without imagination. It was far too easy to play the comfort. Only a kiss thus far, but the manner in which she left gave great promise.'"

"The comforting friend," Kate said between panting groans, "is an old trick."

Irene abandoned the letter to the floor, shifting down the chaise until she kneeled at its end. Curving her hands around the back of her companion's knees, Irene shrugged. The most simple of tricks, she said with softness, with wisdom, are often the most effective. Kate's keening wails soon proved her right.

* * *

"My mother's cold has not left her. Her physician suspects it's something much worse. I'm going to London to look after her."

Her words were dull, flat and the first thing she had said to her husband in three days. Her husband ate his breakfast with stubborn determination. Each press of his fork into the meat was a sharp stab. Every cut of his knife was a slice across the cooked flesh. By his feet his new hounds, pups, sniffled and whined in the hope for scraps. They had come the morning after when she had woken alone. Six of them carried in a crate, they howled for their mother. They'd be trained soon enough, he'd told her, and she would come to love them. One of them with a face tapered down to a point, covered in short grey fur that shone, had stared at her as she held it. Their paws were small, things she could clasp between finger and thumb. The puppy in her hands yawned, its jaw wrenching down, its teeth white and not yet sharp. Her mouth had lifted with a smile, and then the puppy was taken from her hands and placed among its siblings. A footman carried the crate out.

Molly rose to her feet, folding her hands against the base of her waist.

She dropped into a curtsey, rose again. "I'll be taking the carriage to London, but I'll send it back here on my arrival. I can't say when I'll be returning." Her words were brittle. Hearing them, her husband paused and lifted his head.

"Let me know when you've arrived." Another slice of meat, another cut.

She turned away from him.

Later, her travelling cloak on her shoulders, she walked down the steps of the patio onto the pavement. The cold snap had lifted off Bath's shoulders, and the July summer had returned. The humid days were now heavy with sweat on the skin and the distant buzz of flies. A footman opened the carriage door. She climbed inside, settling into the plush seats. Through the closed carriage door, she saw Samuel stood at the window. His gaze was focused on the carriage. She lowered her eyes towards her lap. The carriage moved off.

* * *

Molly thought little of her husband, only asking a note be sent to him to tell of her safe arrival to London. Her old bedchamber had been prepared for her, her clothes set out on the pristine bed. She learned from the butler that her mother had taken to her bed. Calling for two maids, she changed from her travelling clothes into a day dress of patterned white linen, with three-quarter sleeves, laced at their hem. A light shawl covered her shoulders.

Lying in her bed, among blue cotton and silks with the velvet curtains drawn back, her mother received her with an offer of a hand.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, with concern in her now pallid features. "It's too much fuss."

"It's no fuss at all, Mother," Molly replied, a small laugh in her words.

"Samuel will be missing you, and surely you miss him."

Molly avoided her mother's eye. She rolled her thumb against her mother's palm, stroking circles. "I do." The lie, the half-truth, came easily. A memory of full lips breaking from hers, a fraction of a moment— "I'm resolved. Until you're better, I am staying."

"As stubborn as your father," her mother mumbled, energy draining her into sleep. Molly's smile gradually faded. _Molly_. A warning, a want, a reminder. The last thing she had heard from him. Letting go of her mother's hand she left the room.

Venturing downstairs to the library, she sat at the writing desk. With every word she wrote, her name, spoken by Lord Holmes, echoed in her head.

It was evening, as her mother was asleep when the recipient of her letter arrived. Once announced, Irene hurried into the drawing room. Molly's heart swelled at the presence of her friend. Clutching her tight, Molly knew she had missed her desperately.

"You said you had something to admit to me?" Irene ventured as they sat. Molly nodded in return. Within minutes, she'd begun her story. Irene was quiet, listening as she unfolded the events. A scullery maid entered with her head lowered and her hands filled with coal. She tended to the fire with care as the story continued, curtseying when her chore was done. The end of Molly's story came soon afterwards.

"You kissed him?"

"I was hurt," Molly explained. In her memory, full lips hovered at hers, blue eyes visible through blurred vision. "It shall not happen again."

"What happened between you can't become public knowledge," Irene said, urgent now. She blinked back at Irene's stricken tone. Irene threaded her fingers into hers and squeezed tight, pleading. "You can't let anyone know. Molly – Holmes' reputation isn't without truth."

Molly narrowed her eyes. There was more than concern in Irene's eyes. She slid her hand away and rested it in her lap, folding it into her other. "Irene?"

Irene swallowed. Her face was flushed from the fire. Her fingernails scratched the back of her hand.

"I was not like you, Molly, when I entered society. I was brash, I was abrasive. I hadn't learned the act of conversation. I could see their disapproval of my manners. They only kept me in their circles because of my connections. I was confused. My father could bark his opinions every moment of the day, yet I could not? So I kept myself contained. Then, one day, I met a man who wasn't like other men. He listened to me. He let me say everything I had been dying inside to say. I wanted him like I'd never wanted anyone before. He saw my vulnerability, Molly, and he – oh, it was that long ago, I barely remember how it happened. But he had me, long before anyone else did." She took Molly's hand again before Molly could register the full detail of her words. Her blue eyes were dry, but they burned with urging. She spoke the tone of an advisor. "Forget what happened. Don't give in."

 _Molly._ The whisper rang in her ears, her head. His arms had freed her from their embrace as he'd got to his feet, but his fingers had held her wrist as she'd left. _Remain safe._

* * *

Her hands trembled underneath the heavy weight of the tray. The assembled accruements—bowls, plates, saucers, cups, forks, spoons, knives—clattered as she pushed open the bedchamber door. Her mother's eyes fluttered open, seeking the source of the noise. Molly gingerly set the tray down on the bedside table. Her mother's lips moved into a grateful smile, but she soon sobered. She watched Molly pick up the warm bowl of broth, shifting up as Molly bid her, and opened her mouth to be fed.

"I am sorry, my darling."

"I'm happy to care for you," Molly said. She spooned another portion of broth into her mother's mouth. Her mother shook her head.

"No. For whatever has happened to you." Molly froze. Her mother smiled again, eyes watery from her illness, her nose reddened and skin heavy with tiredness. "You were happier when we met last."

She could not lie to her mother. No force could make her. "Mother, I discovered something awful. Something hurtful. I discovered Samuel with a servant girl."

She spoke the fact without a hitching breath or a pause or a shudder. It had so quickly become a fact of her life, the knowledge that her husband was every man.

"Oh my darling," said her mother.

Molly continued to feed her mother the broth.

A knock came a minute or so later, the two visitors announced by a footman. The ground disappeared underneath Molly's feet. The conversation happened without her contribution. Every sound was distant and throbbing in her ears, every beat of her pulse a discombobulating pressure at her temple.

"How is Mary?" she managed to finally say, but her voice was too genial. Dr Watson was dressed in plain brown. He blinked but soon grinned.

"Very well, thank you, Mrs Abbot," he said with a bow. "Holmes suggested I give my opinion on your mother's illness."

Perhaps he had noticed her distracted state. His blue eyes were darker than that of his friend's, less searching but none the less exposing. The dark blue unnerved her. Holmes' eyes looked for puzzles. (Except when she'd cried before him. Then he'd looked upon her with something unknown, unfamiliar.) Dr Watson's eyes, in comparison, searched for solutions that weren't there. Molly returned the broth to the tray and stood. She bowed her head.

"Thank you, Dr Watson. Mother, are you happy for Dr Watson to see you?"

"Yes, yes," her mother said softly, sleepily. A footman removed the tray, departing the room. Her mother's eyes snapped open. "Do not stay, either of you."

Molly nodded.

"Much like my father, she prefers to be seen on her own," she whispered to her two visitors. She had endured many instances of being banned from the bedchambers and tripped up on by maids in the morning when she had forgotten herself and ended up sleeping by her father's door.

"Very well," Holmes said. His tone was tight in its smooth politeness. He looked to her. The gap between his brows creased for a moment. It was as if he were unsure how to address her. "Would you care to walk with me around the garden?"

Molly glanced back to her mother. Her mother winced, a pain shooting through her. When Dr Watson asked her what caused it, her eyes flicked towards Molly. She told Dr Watson not to make a fuss. Molly turned to Lord Holmes. The weight of what had happened—it had been so brief, too, the thought of what she could've done—faced her fully.

Curtseying, she nodded and took the offer of Holmes' arm.

* * *

The garden itself was a product of a project by her mother's first husband, she explained to Holmes as they entered out on to the porch, the green structures of the garden before them. Sculptures of cherubs and maidens were laid out in a square pattern, curved clipped hedges surrounding the grey stone. A gravel path led to where a weeping willow stood. Its branches brushed the dark water of a lily pond.

"How is your husband?" The question came in a lull, far apart from the polite conversation about the neat hedgerows and intelligence of the design. It was a precipice, and if she looked over it, she would see a reality that she was unable to hide from even her mother.

"He is to remain in Bath," she said, choosing her words. "His case remains on-going. I have not been keeping up with it as much as I did before, but – I'm assured he's doing the best he can."

Holmes cleared his throat. A smile touched the left corner of his mouth. "Understandable."

"Is his betrayal of me so well known?" she asked. Her voice was cold, and she wished she could be cheerful, more teasing, hide her feelings like all the made-up ladies who fanned themselves and spoke of their husband's trophies, their husband's achievements and left little in the conversation for themselves. In an instant, she wondered how many of them had been betrayed, how many of them had had to smile into a different reality.

"Only if you behave as if it's known. Until then, they can only go on rumour." Holmes' lips stretched into a fuller smile. He bent his head towards her. His mischief dazzled her, and the feeling came again, the feeling that this was all a game, with dangerous paths to be played. As if she was rigged with strings and being moved across a stage.

"I have to say thank you," she replied, with sharpness. She turned back down the path. They resumed their walk. "To Dr Watson, for seeing my mother. It was very kind of him to come."

"John has a compassion that outreaches mine. Society motivates my visits, regardless of illnesses."

An impish smile reached her mouth. "Did he not say you suggested his visit?"

"I merely told him your mother had been taken ill." They reached the door and Holmes bowed his head. "Thank you for the walk."

"Mrs Abbot." Her reminder came in a whisper, gentle and prodding. His fingers curled around her hand to kiss it. She gently tugged her hand away, settling it back at her side. Straightening, his eyes found her.

"Mrs Abbot," he echoed. His shoulders shifted as he tucked his hands behind his back. He inclined his head. "I'm to return to Bath soon when my visits are done. You know my feelings about the London season."

She gave a nod. "Yes, very well, Lord Holmes."

"Can I write to you?"

Molly paused. "As friends."

Holmes blinked. "Why would I treat you like anything else?"

Avoiding his eye, she headed the steps up towards the house, leaving Holmes behind her. She heard hurried footsteps, felt his hand at her elbow. She turned. Sun broke through the overcast clouds, dark with the threat of rain, and their shadows were cast into long, thin shapes.

Holmes' hand slipped from her elbow. He tucked it behind his back. "One day," he said with languid brightness as if the gesture was immediately forgotten, "I'll have to come to London for the sake of London. I see nothing of it otherwise."

"I'm sure you'll find someone willing to show you round it, Lord Holmes." She turned back away from him, heading further up the steps.

"I thought you had forgotten." His confession was small, narrowing the space, closing it until she felt the brush of a warm breath on her shoulder. "I hoped that…"

He trailed off.

Her gaze dropped towards the ground. Their shadows were entangled, barely able to tell where one began and the other ended. His palm brushing her upper arm was a shock, a jolt to her skin that she felt everywhere.

"I tried, Lord Holmes." Steeling herself, she stepped out from him and hurried into the drawing room. The door opened, revealing Dr Watson.

"Oh, Mrs Abbot. I've just finished seeing your mother."

She swallowed. "How is she?"

"As long as she keeps to her bed, she'll be fine. I'll send you a list of further instructions for her care but the illness should pass within a couple of weeks, a month if it's stubborn enough. Well, Holmes?"

"Sounds right," Holmes said, walking towards the drawing room door. He turned at the last moment and bowed shortly to her. Dr Watson followed his suit. "Good afternoon, Mrs Abbot."

She didn't manage to respond in kind before the two men were gone.

* * *

 **August 1786  
A month later**

It was eventual that the talk of society moved from the illness that plagued Lady Frances Hooper to the grand return she would make now the illness was conquered. Ladies discussed what fashions they might wear, who might be in attendance (one rumour claimed the Duchess of Devonshire was to make an appearance, and the ladies twittered with panic, bringing dressmakers a tidy profit in the process). Men laughed at their ladies gossip while discussing the appropriate way to approach the Duke of Devonshire—if he was to appear along with his wife—with their latest scheme for investment.

"My lord." Holmes lifted his head up from his newspaper, meeting his footman. Wiggins gestured towards the tailor stood before him. The tailor stood in the middle of the drawing room and held two overcoats in his hands, waiting for an answer.

"The blue," Holmes said with a wave of a hand.

"Red would do me," came the greeting. Holmes groaned, looking back to his newspaper. He sank further down into the length of the sofa.

"In this part of society, we say 'I would prefer the red'," he said, flicking his eyes towards the entering Lestrade. "You paid for your peerage. You could at least make the effort to sound like one of us."

"Would you like to try the coat my lord?" asked the tailor. Holmes stood as Lestrade sat and picked up the abandoned newspaper. Holmes walked over to where a full-length mirror stood, with a screen for dressing beside it. The coat itself was a pale grey blue, its embroidery the colour wintry grey.

"Familiar pattern," he remarked, glancing over the sleeves.

The tailor nodded. "Just as ordered, my lord."

The decision was made with a nod. Wiggins gestured to the tailor, who removed the coat and set about packing it away.

"What's all this in aid of then?" Holmes rolled his eyes at Lestrade's words. "That party of Lady Hooper's?"

"Mm-hm," he replied. He wandered about the drawing room, picking up a glass of wine. He gulped back a mouthful of it. "We lords must always look our best. Remember that."

"I was thinking of going there myself." On Holmes' look, Lestrade grinned. "Anyone who is anyone is going."

"Who's the woman?"

"No-one you know."

He scanned Lestrade and returned to his reflection. He brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder. "The Duchess of Richmond? I hear she has extensive gardens."

"Apparently."

"I hear she has a fair few gardeners too. Friends of her husband."

Lestrade failed to hide his glare.

"Who's your woman then?" he asked. Holmes gave a shrug. Standing back before the mirror, he found Molly Abbot, once Hooper, standing at his side. Her smile was sweet. Her head was tilted to one side as if resting her head on his shoulder. His fingers twitched. For a moment, it was her fingertips curling into his palm.

He blinked the idea away.

"Whichever takes my eye, I suppose," he said, taking another drink of his wine.

* * *

The duke before him was coloured puce, mouth drawn into a tight line. In the hot room, sweat beaded on the duke's forehead. His attention hovered between him and his cards.

In some far off corners of the games room, gentlemen hungrily appraised the ladies playing light games of whist. The ladies giggled and sat where they knew they would be spotted. White full-lipped cherubs rested their fingers against the string of their instruments, their bodies feeding into the yellow walls. Below the din of conversation and protestations from losers, the music of the orchestra could be heard.

Sherlock returned his attention to his puce-coloured opponent. He raised an eyebrow.

"Best of six?"

The duke glared up at him.

"Damn you!" he spat, and he threw his cards down, storming from the games room. Hardly a moment and he returned to the table, standing over Sherlock. The others in the games room gave him no attention.

"One day," the duke hissed. His squashed nostrils flared. "One day Holmes, you will find an opponent who you cannot cheat, however much you try. On that day, I'll be pissing on your grave along with the rest."

Holmes sipped at his wine. The duke departed as John Watson slid into the vacant seat. Smirking, he picked up the abandoned hand. He sucked in a breath, wincing. He glanced up.

"Another?"

"You deal," Sherlock replied, dropping his previous hand onto the table and letting them scatter. John's smirk widened as he shuffled the cards.

"Gossip's been spreading quite recently."

"It does little else."

"The rumours say you've been writing regularly to someone in the – Hooper household, I think it was?" John's eyes glinted.

"I've written one letter, inquiring as to Lady Hooper's recuperation. Rumours always exaggerate. You only have to look at the disappointed faces of every woman here."

John laughed. "They were convinced she was going to turn up. I've never seen so many ostrich feathers in one place before. Rumours do tend to have some truth in them, though, you must admit that."

"Why _must_ I admit that?"

"You always used to term other people's health as 'dull'."

Sherlock grinned. Behind John next to the furthest window in the room, a group of ladies with bands on their fingers and no desire for attention sat. Some were middle-aged, others wrinkled with faces powdered white. Mrs Abbot wore a gown of late summer, a pale fleshy pink laced with flowers. She was a calm reminder of the incoming autumn, her smile kind when listening to the sounds of a conversation he'd have cut off before it could begin.

He set down his hand and rose to his feet. "I did, didn't I?"

Weaving through the tables and card games, he departed from the room and into a crowded hallway. Young lords and ladies flirted clumsily with one another in the tight space of the conversation crush; elder generations fanned themselves as they settled into plush loveseats. Music for dancing, closer now, accompanied the crush. Just beyond the crowd, he saw lines of dancers bow to one another and come together, hands holding hands as they turned in circles. He carried on through the throng down the corridor's path.

"Oh, Molly! Mrs Abbot! Wait!" He whipped his head around. Close to him, Mrs Abbot paused in the throng to wait for a middle-aged lady. "I forgot to mention to you," the lady began.

Sherlock started forward. A hand slipped into his, and he was tugged back into a dim parlour room. Before him he saw the figure of a female, hurrying to slam the door shut. The female's arms locked around his neck and took his mouth. The taste of her was instant and recognisable.

He kissed her with hunger and an ache never fulfilled. He slammed her back against the parlour room wall, his hands roaming over her body to touch her, stay with her for as long as he could. He nibbled at her bottom lip.

"If anyone enters, they're dead," he gasped against his lady's mouth, kissing her again before she could reply.

"I'm leaving for my country estates soon."

"September, I'll guess," he said, taking his lady's wrists with both of his hands. He pinned them above her head and kissed her neck. She hummed a moan, half-amused.

"I'm running out of patience." Her tone was light. He paused. In the darkness, he found her eyes. Beyond the locked door, conversations were muffled. One voice rang clear and sweet, excusing herself from yet more conversation about a husband's rheumatism. Sherlock let one hand drift down his lady's body, leaning more into her until his lips were at her ear.

"So am I." He nipped at her lobe.

Her free hand pushed against his chest.

"Evidence first, Lord Holmes." Lady Adler slipped out from his grip and out of the door.

Sherlock sank against the wall, running his hands over his face. His fingers sank into his hair. A low growl came from the back of his throat. His mouth tingled with the memory of Irene's hunger, something sweeter brushing the edges. A fragile kiss, which had been stolen from him in the middle of a storm.

Leaving the appropriate amount of time, listening, he wandered through the darkness of the parlour room, letting his fingers wander over the covered furnishings as he thought of Mrs Abbot.

* * *

She lit a candle in lieu of a fire. Only a short distance was lit before her, and she peered into the dim. It was a drawing room, unused, white cloth covering the furnishings. The scent of dust was thick. Approaching the fireplace, she saw that a sofa stood before it. Bending down, she threw off the white covering and let it pool on the floor. A table stood before the sofa. She set down the candle, sinking into the plush cushions. She sighed, pressing her elbows against her knees, rubbing her fingers against her temple. Her head rang with remembered chatter and the jovial playing of dances.

Looking up, she jumped to her feet. She frowned, unable to decipher the figure stood before her in the darkness. The candle flame only touched a bookshelf, half-exposed of its white covering.

She curtseyed and bowed her head towards the figure. "My apologies, I did not know anyone else was here."

A book was snap shut, and the figure walked forward. They bent down and picked up the candle, their face fully illuminated. Lord Holmes smiled and bowed his head.

"Mrs Abbot. I wouldn't recommend those volumes," he said, looking over his shoulder at the bookshelf. "They have nothing you've not already learned."

"Lord Holmes," she greeted. "Are you not enjoying the festivities? There's to be a fireworks display soon."

"I know. Your mother seems pleased to be back in society."

"It's all she could talk about towards the end. This ball, and who would come. Who she would host."

"A pity I'm not more interested." Still holding the candlestick, Holmes took a step forward. Molly lowered her eyes, avoiding him. The heat of the candle flame stood between them. She felt his forefinger tuck underneath her chin. She lifted her head. It became a centre point, his flesh faintly touching her skin. She imagined him drawing a line down her neck, paying no heed to her ache, him smiling as his fingers curled against her, his line descending her body.

His middle finger slid up to touch the base of her chin. His brow dipped.

"Have I done something? To offend you?"

She considered him. "You have not."

He kissed her. Her mouth, for a moment, moved with his, lazily, languidly, as if it were not a kiss at all.

His eyes were lidded as he pulled away, still holding her.

"I will make up for it, Mrs Abbot. In any way you choose."

She ducked her head and he released her. The candle flame between them flickered, bright and burning. The candle's wax pooled at its base. It was a scent that reminded her of memories that were too entangled together to unclasp and watch back, wish and fact shifting and blurring. "Such attention is – not required of you. Lord Holmes."

A knock, a rapping knock, sounded on the parlour room door. Lord Holmes set down the candle on the table, hurrying to stand behind the door as Molly sat. The door opened. Her mother entered, fanning herself. She wore an evening gown of earth green, the bodice embroidered with summer flowers.

"Molly! What are you doing here?" she asked, but she left little room for an answer, walking forward and taking Molly's hand. "Come outside now, the fireworks are beginning."

Behind her mother, Holmes slipped out of the doorway and back into the crowd beyond. She obeyed her mother with a nod.

"Yes, Mother. I only needed some air." Standing, she blew out the candle flame and took her mother's arm.

From the crowd, Holmes reappeared, with a searching look on his face. His features lightened when they found her mother.

"Lady Hooper," he said with grace. The mask slid easily into place, of a tired guest about to make his excuses. Her mother wore her mask with easy immediacy too, the mask of a host wishing her guest to stay. Holmes straightened up from his bow. "I was hoping to find you before I made my departure."

"You're leaving us so soon?" her mother said.

"I must. I have business to attend to."

"Can it not wait?"

"It cannot, much as I wish it could." He bowed again. "Good evening, Lady Hooper. Mrs Abbot."

He took Molly's hand and kissed it as he always did, brushing a swiping soft circle into her palm. As he left, the sound of the crowd beyond the parlour room door filled the silence. She pressed her fingers to her mouth.

"Be careful."

Her mother's tone was low. She flinched at the warning, finding her mother staring at her with a mellow admonition.

"While I am grateful to Lord Holmes for his kindness and aid in my illness, that does not mean I can ignore other parts of his character." Her hand settled against her daughter's forearm. "My darling – do not get caught up."

* * *

Ostrich-feathered ladies, contented by company and wine, kissed their chosen bedfellows for the night and with laughter, climbed into their carriages. Some of them flashed the presence of their wedding bands with abandon, spiting their already departed husbands.

Molly, alone in her carriage, closed her eyes as the carriage travelled over the bumpy gravel. She did not wake until she heard the sounds of the city. The last few streets of the journey had slowed to a crawl. A line of carriages made their way through the taverns. Their passengers flinched at the shouts of the poor, begging for money or drunkenly making advances to the bejewelled women within.

Through the poor, Molly saw a ragged man stood with a hound at his side. Its white fur was matted, its old eyes cloudy, and it licked its owner's hand as he fed it scraps of poor meat. The ragged man laughed and patted his hound's head. Molly watched the exchange until her carriage rounded the corner and the taverns were left behind.

Arriving at the townhouse, she passed the blank-eyed cherubs and an antique grandfather clock, purchased for a handsome sum.

"Ma'am," murmured a footman, taking her cloak from her. The grandfather clock struck four as she entered into her bedchamber.

Months ago, it had been their bedchamber. She had thought of it for so long as her own. It felt as if she had always regarded it as such, with no husband and no name of Abbot. In her bedchamber, she returned to the comfort of Molly Hooper. She undressed and, naked, wore garments of memories, a patchwork of ages and years that felt like days.

Two maids washed her, scrubbing her skin clean of the smoke and sweat of the party. Coming out of the bath, they dressed her in a nightgown and robe. Molly noticed, on the writing desk, a small pile of letters was left on a silver tray.

There were seven in total, three from acquaintances in Bath wishing her mother a good recovery, from Mary, inquiring as to how she had coped with the duties of nursing. Her smile, wide as she read the words of each letter, hesitated when she came upon the next.

Her fingers brushed, as if in worship or prayer, over her name, written in slanted looped words. Her thumb, as she flipped the letter over, pressed against the bumps of the sender's seal. Lifting the paper, the wax seal ripped into two.

 _My dear, Mrs Abbot,_ it began. The rest was genial, speaking to her as he spoke to Watson, a friend's discussion. Never did he stray from the chosen topic. His slanted words flowed freely, speaking of new books and new scientific discoveries she might find of interest. Dry if written by anybody else, but his passion was real, visceral, threading through her memories, pulling her back to her reality.

The letter fluttered to the floor as she left the bedchamber and stood in the corridor. A painting of the countryside stood before her. She examined it, the discombobulating pressure returned to her. The trees were blurred brushstrokes of green, the mountains formed by arcs of a wrist, dappled sunshine dots of muted yellow. The pressure faded. A plan came to her. She called forth a footman and made her orders for the butler to be summoned. When he arrived, he bowed.

"Pack my things," she said, "and call for the carriage. I'm to leave immediately."

The butler nodded once, and silently gestured to two footmen. They entered her bedchamber. Her maids, as her trunks were taken downstairs, dressed her ready for travelling. Putting on her cloak, Molly hurried down the staircase, drawing her hood over her face.

She stepped out into a silent London thick with humidity. The carriage driver wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. The horses whickered.

"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, stuffing his handkerchief into his coat pocket.

Her answer came without hesitation. She would return to the place where Molly Hooper had grown.

* * *

Though she saw his carriage arrive, Irene left it until the last available moment to admit him. Sat at her dressing table, she remained sitting as he entered her bedchamber, turning in her seat, folding one leg over the other, draping her arm across the back of her chair. She tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear and smiled.

"You look like thunder," she remarked. Holmes leant back against the wall and returned her smile with a smirk.

"On the contrary," he said with the air of a man gifted with the law of the land. "No doubt you've heard already."

"Of my friend's midnight departure?" Irene turned in her seat. In the surface of the mirror, he was a hidden figure, his face obscured. She tilted her chin to one side, admiring her reflection. "Some rumours say she was blackmailed."

"Others say she is pregnant with her lover's child." He walked across the room towards the mirror, clutching the back of her chair and bending down until his chin was tucked against her shoulder. His eyes shone, amused.

She turned her head. Her nose was inches from his cheek. "That would be evidence even I couldn't dispute."

They found each other's eyes in their reflection. He broke, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Her body wracked with the force of it, clutching her stomach as she shrieked out a laugh. It was a release of every joke they had ever shared, every delightful comment they had whispered above and among crowds.

She slumped against his body, the laughter fading, as he straightened up. One hand trailed against the line of her neck, coming to rest on her shoulder.

His hand found hers. She kissed his fingers, his knuckles. When he attempted to do the same, she withdrew. She locked her eyes with his.

Temptation, an old temptation, made her reach up. Her hand curved against the sharp line of his cheek, a perfect fit well learned. "You were the first man I ever wanted. Even then, I wondered why."

She trailed a finger down his opposite cheek. Her eyes dropped towards his full lips. "You made it easy."

Her hand pressed against his mouth as he leant forward. He smiled from behind her fingers. The oldest tricks, Irene thought with a certain breath, really were the best.

"Evidence," she said, with clarity. "Remember our bargain."

His hand fell away from her shoulder and he straightened up. "I'll fulfil it soon," he said, heading towards the door. "But I have other matters to attend to first."

"A lady?" she asked.

"A duchess," he replied.

Irene scoffed. "You can find a duchess ready for fucking anywhere. Go back to London."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:** _This chapter has been a total beast, but I hope what's contained within more than makes up for the wait. Reviews are always, always welcome and treasured._

* * *

Frances rushed into the entrance hall. The mahogany table in the centre of the hall displayed fresh seasonal flowers. Paintings of triumphs lined the walls, the winding staircase.

An inquiry of a footman told her of her daughter's location. Heading into the salon, Frances ordered tea for two and sat down. The clock sat on the fireplace ticked. Frances turned her head. Through the windows, she saw the familiar hills of Oxfordshire. Only the summer season and winter were kind to that view. In autumn, it was suffocated by grey. The lush trees died and rotted until winter came to cover the scene in a blanket of white.

From the hills, the figure she expected rode up, a girl on a horse taking in the last snatches of daylight. She cleared her throat and turned her head back from the window. She brushed a crease from her skirts.

The tea was brought in soon before her daughter's arrival. Her cup was to her lips when the doors opened and her daughter entered.

The skirts of her riding habit were splashed with traces of mud. Her hair was tangled, even more so when she removed her hat. Already she was mollified and sheepish. Her head lowered as she dropped into a greeting curtsey. Frances gave the courtesy no attention.

"Do you know why I'm here, Molly?" she asked. Her voice was as gentle as she could manage as her daughter sat beside her. The maid moved forward and poured her a cup. She failed to touch it.

"Was your journey good?"

"It was pleasant yes," Frances said. "We had to stop off at an inn on the way here to give water to the horses. The landlord who ran it was courteous enough. In fact, he told me of another visitor to his establishment."

Frances gave pause. "A young married lady."

All at once, her daughter stifled a false yawn. "Apologies Mother, I'm very tired. I've been riding all day. We can continue this conversation tomorrow."

"I'm usually the first to hear of society gossip, so imagine my surprise when I hear from this welcoming landlord that this young married lady, apparently in some distress, came to his door near to two and a half weeks ago."

Molly froze. Frances narrowed her eyes. "Not a few days, as I had been led to assume."

She watched her daughter. She had grown into a woman underneath Lady Adler's teaching, a fine and graceful young woman. Frances saw before her now that same woman, but retreated back into a shell of girlhood. Molly returned to the sofa.

"You know exactly why I am here, Molly. Samuel may go off gallivanting with whatever girl he chooses, but wives are always wiser than their husbands. They have to be otherwise nothing would ever be done."

"I don't think I'm wise, Mother." Molly swallowed. Her nails scratched a line around her wrist. Frances aimed an inquiring look at her daughter. Molly shrugged. "Well-spoken isn't wise."

"Wise is removing oneself from the situation before it's too late," Frances said. She gave a sad smile as Molly lifted her gaze. Once, when she had been a little girl, Molly had taken to stealing scraps from the kitchen. The cook had caught her with strawberry juice stained on her lips. She had frogmarched her to her father. Before her father, who'd laughed and seemed unable to stop, she had stood contrite and quiet and still.

She carried traces of that same stillness. Frances sighed. She slipped her hand into hers, squeezing it tight in reassurance.

"Why do you think I warned you? I am proud of you, for what you've done. But there is a line between wisdom and cowardice. As long as you hide…" Frances trailed off, steeling herself to be firm. She remembered her mother, speaking to her when she had wept as an unmarried girl, confused by the jewels of high society, and their snide whispers at her fashions. She stared hard at her daughter. "The rumours will grow."

Molly shook her head, though her hands trembled. "They'll fade."

She couldn't believe her own lie, despite trying. Frances hid a smile.

"They fade when you die. Return to London, and cut them at the root. Ignore whatever Lord Holmes sends you. Send him away from your door with polite dismissal. Do not be your husband." Frances cupped Molly's cheek, watching with fervent hope her daughter's features. They were still for a long moment, blank and void of a reply, a response to the plea.

"You hear me? You are not your husband," Frances said.

Her eyelids fluttered in a blink. Her brown pupils hardened. She remained quiet.

Frances withdrew her hand from her daughter's cheek. Leaving the drawing room, she called for maids to pack their mistress's trunk. Beyond the windows, the last days of summer cracked with the scent of oncoming rain.

* * *

The thunderstorm raged. Footsteps of footmen sloshed in muddy rain water as they hurried their masters and mistresses into their homes. Wheels of carriages carried the water in arcs as drivers urged on their horses.

"There's a visitor for you, Mrs Abbot."

Molly stared down at the grey pavement through the rain-streaked windows. There was no carriage by the pavement.

"Who is it?" she asked, still focused on the street below.

"Mrs Watson," the footman replied. "I let her wait in the entrance hall, owing to the weather—"

"That's fine," Molly interrupted. She glanced down at herself, her attire of a nightgown and robe. Her fingers idly played with the strands of her loose hair. "I'll – I'll see her."

The footman gave a nod. "Of course."

Her growing warmth froze when her visitor walked in. Lord Holmes shut the door behind him, pressing his finger to his lips.

She breathed hard. The even pace of her heartbeat quickened.

"How much did you pay my footman to lie for you?" she asked with attempted steadiness.

He smirked and raised an eyebrow. "You ought to raise his salary."

"Vails are cheaper," Molly replied. She whipped around to face the window.

"Why have you not seen me?" He spoke into the moment left behind by her snarl, her echo of his words. His tone was not one of chastisement. It wasn't of that distant curiosity he'd possessed when she'd first come to know him. It reminded her of long-casted shadows, candlelight, of a hand at her elbow in a crowd.

"I sent a note," Holmes said, without emotion, as if observing the facts of the scene. "To welcome you back to London when you returned, two weeks ago. Did you receive it?"

"I did."

"You didn't answer."

"Was one required?"

Amusement licked the edge of his observations. "I believe you know etiquette better than I do, Mrs Abbot."

She turned her head to see, out of the corner of her eye, him drop into a bow. A smile crinkled the corner of her mouth.

She stopped herself from turning with a short clench of her fists at her side.

"A brief thank you note would have sufficed," she said.

"Then you did not answer me."

"No."

"Could you answer me now?" The teasing was fading.

She clutched her trembling fingers to her palm and fully turned to find him. He tilted his head in return, a dog cocking its ear at the call of its master. His eyes were sober and clear. Her fingers stilled. She dropped into a small curtsey. "Thank you for your note, Lord Holmes."

"There," she said to his replying silence. "Now you may leave me."

"May I ask a question?"

She returned to watching the rain, straightening her back. He took her silence as acceptance.

"What have I done for you to treat me with this contempt?"

Her husband's gnarled anger, his baseless accusations, flashed up at her. Whore. She spoke before she could stop.

"Contempt?" she spat the question, whirling round. "At what parts have I shown contempt towards you, towards your character? I have treated you with nothing but kindness!"

"If this is kindness, I'd hate to see your affection," Holmes replied, casual and sharp at the same time. "I wrote to you as a friend, and received no reply. I have visited you, and have been dismissed at the door each time. I am your friend, Molly. Do you think it pleases me to have to pay vails in order to even catch a glimpse of you?"

The skirts of her robe fluttered around her feet as she darted forward. She jerked to a stop, the sofa before her in her way. Her fists clenched. "If you were any kind of friend," she snapped, "you would respect my wish!"

Holmes looked struck by her words, slapped by the bluntness. She swallowed. Her rage cooled. A long silence followed her sigh.

"If you could not see it before… perhaps my words now will help you. I do not wish to see you, Lord Holmes. I do not wish to see you ever again." Her voice was shaking, the pressure of her mother's words pressing down on her own. Her eyes felt wet. "If we attend the same assembly, you will not bow to me. If you call at my house, you will be turned away."

Another silence fell between them in a hush.

"Who makes you say this?" He was as calm as he would be stuck in a conversation with a lord insistent on telling nothing but anecdotes about the weather. His look, as she examined him, preparing herself to answer, was blank.

She was not her husband.

"Me," she replied.

"I don't believe you."

"It doesn't matter if you don't believe me. I have treated you with kindness, Lord Holmes, but our friendship must be broken from the moment you leave this room. Please leave."

Holmes' blank look remained. It remained unchanged as he sat opposite her on the sofa, crossing his legs and leaning back into its seat. He tapped his bottom lip, his forefinger running along the full shape.

"Must be broken? I've had plenty of acquaintances and only a handful of friendships, admittedly. Some of them have ended, Mrs Abbot, but none of them have ever claimed it was a matter of 'must'. It was always a matter of 'want'. I want this friendship to end. But you and I – our friendship must?"

"Lord Holmes, you have heard me, have you not?"

"I have, Mrs Abbot."

"Then I wish you to leave."

"Hm. No." She tried to step back, but her feet did not obey. She was forced to watch as he rose to his feet, approaching her. He knelt on the sofa before her, leaning his palms into its back. "Not until I have obtained a proper explanation for this sudden change."

They were directly opposite each other now, his full Cupid's bow thinned into a frown. His brows were knitted together. She blinked away the memory of another night, another rainstorm; she avoided his eyes.

"I – don't – I don't – have an explanation for you, Lord Holmes. Not one that you haven't heard already. But you have to accept it – our friendship, what it was…" Molly paused.

His eyes had changed, softened. He didn't seem to know it himself, this shift in his look. His whole body, taut with determination, had relaxed.

Her fingers brushed up the luxuriant silk of his overcoat. Purple flowers threaded by silver, their backdrop black. Her breath cracked like glass, shards of it shaking in the air between them. It shattered into a sigh, a cry, as the pads of her fingers cradled his cheek.

Curiosity. It was the undoing of so many. The making of others. This curiosity felt like both at once; a damnation that was a blessing in itself. Greenwood, she had become a woman. One who loved the woman who'd taught her, and loved the man she'd married. The woman was her friend. The husband wanted her as nothing more than a wife. In his green-blue eyes, she saw memories of Greenwood and promises of something new—something dangerous—that was yet to come.

His head dipped against her chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist. She sank into the security. Relief, that she had failed to find in running away, seeking it, desperately and clawing for it in corridors loved by a child, washed over her at long last.

She clasped him tight, holding his neck and shoulders in her arms, pressing her cheek to the top of his head. He tugged her close.

"Molly…" He let out a breath. "I love you."

The spell broke. She jumped back from Holmes, scalded by the words. He looked at her in a way Samuel never had. His look, just as his love, was fact and inescapable. Molly stumbled, hurrying towards the door.

"I think you need to leave," she gasped, air catching in her throat. The spell had come too quick, and left her quicker still.

"You deserve the truth." He spoke flatly, without malice. Her vision blurred, tears coming as he spoke to her. "Too long I've put up this act of being content with friendship. I love you—"

"Please, Lord Holmes, I beg you, don't continue—"

"More than that, I adore you. Your compassion, your intelligence, your curiosity—" He didn't stop, the nature of his words catching in her heart. She stumbled under the weight of them, shaking her head.

"This isn't possible—"

"I'd not known you a month before I knew the truth: you were the first woman I had ever met I wanted by my side for the rest of my life."

"I'm not—" Holmes' presence overwhelmed, looming up behind her. She breathed until she could once again feel her heartbeat. It pulsed against her ribcage like the monotonous thrum of a bell.

"You would remove me for speaking the truth?" Holmes sounded not hurt nor offended, but mellowed. Her heart pressed harder against her ribcage, making her gasp. It felt to be now a prison, her bones transformed into bars. Behind from which her heart tried to escape, reaching out with bloody hands. The ache was unbearable. Heat prickled over her skin.

She turned, her back sinking against the door, her eyes lifting up until she met Holmes' eyes. He was patient. Willing for her to speak.

Tears fell down her cheeks.

"I'm not my husband," she whispered. Holmes' look changed again. Now he stood before her chastened. Repentant. Willing her to forgive him.

Between finger and thumb, he held her chin. He tilted her head up, just as he bent his head. He kissed the tears off her cheeks. Her cheeks bloomed beneath his touch, pink returning to the pale. Warmth flooded her senses. The maid had been a forgotten thing in her husband's mind; a scrap for the dogs to find, naked and left alone. When she had confronted him, he had grinned and pressed his cock against her thigh, thinking he could still have her after all he'd done.

She looked at the man before her. She cradled his cheek. Her thumb ran over the deep Cupid's bow, the shaped bottom lip, the hollow in his cheek. Her fingers slid around and threaded against his nape. They sank into the curls of his hair. His eyelids fluttered close for a snatch of a moment, breathing shallow from a shiver of pleasure.

"Does it hurt you so much?" he murmured, half to himself. His lips hovered at her cheek. "To make me happy?"

Her mouth opened with an answer, but closed. He shifted his head at her silence. He released a slow heavy sigh.

"Well. Then…" he said. His fingers slid from her chin.

Molly lashed out. Holmes stilled, surprise in his widened eyes. He glanced down to her hand, wrapped around his wrist. His gaze slid back to her. The smallest of smiles tilted at the corner of his mouth.

"Sherlock." She took a breath and released his wrist. In the silence she pressed her palm to his chest. She spread her fingers over the silk of his waistcoat. Her eyes remained locked with his as she reached up onto tiptoe.

She met him with a brushing of lips. Deepening the kiss, she mumbled a single phrase against his mouth.

"Stay with me."

"Forever," he replied. He scooped her up into his arms, kissing her as he walked towards to the sofa.

Bending down, he lay her down on the sofa's soft cushions. He knelt before her. Her breath hitched, realisation bubbling up inside her chest. She swallowed words, and reached forward for another kiss. Smiling against her mouth, he pushed at her shoulders until she was laid out. His hands pushed at the material of her skirts. Molly lifted her hips in reply, letting the skirt of her nightgown pool around her waist.

All the patience he had displayed was gone, desire overtaking love. She ached for him all the more. Realisation faded. Grasping her ankles, Sherlock lifted her legs until they were hooked over his shoulders, her feet digging into the toned muscles of his back. He mouthed kisses to the inside of her thighs, inching his way to her sex. With one hand he touched her, sinking one finger into her centre. Molly sighed, spreading herself for him. She was wet, and ready.

He feasted, his tongue reaching into her, adoring her and fucking her with his mouth until she moaned and arched, urging to be filled. Drawing back, he sucked at her clit, slipping his finger back into her centre. He inserted a second as he withdrew his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her belly. Every shallow thrust of his fingers was sweet slow agony. His tongue returned to her clit.

"Please Sherlock," Molly begged. The fact that he was clothed was maddening. Now she had given herself over, she wanted every piece of him exposed. Nothing hidden. Every acre of him hers, to love and caress in the dark.

A deep thrust of his fingers made her yelp and moan. He laughed, the sound rumbled through her whole body. She wiggled happily against his mouth. His thrusts became harder, until she was bucking again, writhing.

His free hand danced up her body until he reached her chest. He palmed her breasts, kneading the flesh through the thin cotton, tweaking the hardening nub of her nipples. His mouth left her clit.

"May I?" he asked, his eyes at the collar of her nightgown. His fingers kept up their pace. A shiver fled up her spine, ending in a gasp.

"Please," she managed to say. With his free hand, he pulled at the satin ribbon bow that lined her collar. The collar fluttered to the sides, exposing her breasts. His voice rumbled something low and inaudible. She gave no attempt to hear his words, lost in the pleasure and promises his kisses gave.

He kissed the underside of her right breast, his teeth scraping along the pale skin. She twitched and sighed, throwing her head back, closing her eyes. She felt his mouth hot on her nipple, taking it between his lips, his tongue darting out over the hardened nub.

He repeated the action on her left breast, kissing and sucking both her breasts before he mouthed a path of kisses up her chest towards her collarbone. He nibbled gently at the line of bone, lathering his tongue where his teeth had been. Sparks of pleasure jumped through her body, surging in her blood until her feet curled against his back and her fingers sank into the flesh of his shoulders.

A prayer, a babbling prayer, tumbled from her lips. "I love you," she sobbed, "I love you… Oh – I love—"

The prayer was taken from her with a sharp thrust of his fingers and a deep kiss to her mouth. She tasted herself on his tongue, musky and sinful. At the last moment, as a scream flooded her mouth like honey and left her lips as pants and soft grunts, he switched his fingers for his tongue until she screamed again, his name this time her prayer.

Coming down, Molly looked down at Sherlock. Wriggling out from his place between her thighs, he leaned back on his knees. There was a boyish look about him of triumph. As if he wished to tell somebody, the world, of the desire he'd discovered.

Molly giggled, giddy. And the giggle became a laugh. A high, sharp laugh. She stood, her hands over her mouth, trying to contain the laugh that seemed to her, now, unstoppable. Sherlock rose to his feet. He took a hold of her wrists, gently tugging her hands away from her face. Her laughter faded as he kissed her once again. It was halfway between candlelight and a storm, his hands sliding against her face and sinking into her hair. She held onto the warmth of his lips moving against hers, the taste of his tongue. He moaned into her lips as she pressed her body close to his.

"Mrs Abbot—"

"Hooper," she gasped. Abbot was reality, and reality did not deserve Holmes. She pressed a short kiss to his mouth. "Hooper."

"Hooper," he repeated. A smile came to his mouth. "Molly Hooper."

He repeated the name, her name, as they exchanged kisses, their hands caressing one another. His jacket fell to the floor, his silken waistcoat following. He pulled at his shirt collar with one hand as his other brushed over her shoulder. Molly rolled her shoulder underneath his touch. The silk of her dressing gown pooled at her elbow.

Grasping the white cotton of his shirt she helped him pull it over his head. Their mouths returned to one another immediately, her hands sinking into his hair, trailing over the toned muscles of his chest.

Breaths and pants and declarations exchanged, but her hunger forgot his words. She remembered only his heat; his scent; the security of his mouth on hers, his arms around her. Soon he was bare before her. Dropping her robe to the ground, her nightgown followed, his hands tugging it over her head.

His hands held her waist. His mouth returned to her breasts. Molly sank her fingers into his hair and the flesh of his shoulders, dropping kisses to his skin, arching, her nipple moving underneath his tongue. Drawing away from her, he grinned. He kissed her again, licking a path up her neck towards her jaw. Molly tilted her head back, her fingers still in his hair.

Rebellion shuddered low in her body, a shiver of impishness running up her spine.

"Find me," she whispered. She kissed him briefly, nibbling on his bottom lip, curving her hand around his sharp jaw. She felt his frown against her lips. She giggled. Slipping out from his grasp, she ran.

She ran towards the doors, throwing them open, and she ran. Her bare feet slammed against the hard stone floor of her townhouse. She ran without judgement.

She heard him running, his baritone laugh, behind her. She turned and ran up the stairs. Her thighs burned with the effort, but she continued to run down corridors, hallways, past purchased paintings and bought antiques. A grandfather clock rang out, the sonorous sound distant underneath her feet. The wooden floors creaked. She darted past rugs, jumped out of the way of tables. She turned on her heel, eyes darting. She heard his running. She turned. She speeded up.

Perhaps some kind of madness had overcome her. What madness, she didn't know. It only felt like freedom.

Molly darted into her bedchamber, turning to face the open door.

Running slowed to footsteps.

She stepped back towards the bed, wrapping her hand around the carved post and listened.

Sherlock's footsteps came closer.

His bare form appeared, stood in the frame of the door. Her body thrummed, arousal pooling in her body. He crossed the width of the room towards her. His hand clutched at her hips, his other dropping down to caress her backside. His breaths, hard from the run, felt hot at her ear.

"You ask me to stay – then run from me." He kissed her neck, dropping his mouth towards her collarbone. Molly hummed at the echo of his teeth against the bone, hooking her arms around his neck. His hands delved between her thighs, lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Underneath her she felt his cock, already half-hard. He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand sliding up to hold her by her waist. The other idly palmed her breasts.

"Perhaps," Molly whispered, smiling at his hiss, the slight buck of his hips as she took him in hand, "you need to learn more about women."

"I certainly have more to learn about you, Molly Hooper." His breathless mention of her unmarried name wormed its way into her memory. "You're a surprise."

Pressing her hand to his chest, Molly eased him back onto the silken bedsheets. His hands held her hips as she adjusted her position, fully straddling him. Lifting her hips, her breasts tilting up as she arched her shoulders. She slid onto his hard cock until he was seated inside her.

He felt like every unanswered curiosity, every dismissed anxiety; he felt like an answer to every single one of them. Beautiful. She tilted her head back, the sound from her throat a deep groan. She began to rock against him, taking him deeper.

Her mind was blind by the relief flooded through her. It left no room for regret. It was hard to feel regret for a ruination she'd already prayed for, her fantasies now taken up not by blonde-haired knights but a man of intelligence with dark curls and crystal-cut eyes.

"I love you," Sherlock bit out, lifting his hips to match her in rhythm. There was no way to disguise their deeds, their rough fucking. They were exposed and bare to the world, even if the world only stretched, in this moment, to the doors of her bedchamber. His voice softened as she pressed her palms to his chest, steadying herself, momentarily slowing the pace.

"Molly," he groaned. Molly's eyes flew open. As she gazed, smiled, down at him, she linked her fingers with his. She brought his hands to her breasts. He brushed his palms over her nipples, pinching them both between finger and thumb. Molly gasped. Her smile widened. One of his hands slid up her chest, sinking into her hair, pulling just enough at the strands. Her eyes fluttered shut, sinking into the shot of pain. His hand left her hair to hold her shoulder.

His other hand left her breast. His fingers slid against her clit, bringing her close. She gave a choked squeak. It fell into a sigh. Her grin returned to her as her eyes opened again. She stared up at the ceiling, the canopy of the bed. Its dark wood, set against white engravings of vines and gods.

"Say it again."

His voice was soft as he spoke. "I love you."

Realisation. She was not her husband. With a tremble, a gasp, a shout, Molly Hooper came.

* * *

He was lost. Her warm, waiting, obedient body, the musky scent of her sex; he was consumed by them both. That didn't worry him. He always allowed himself a month or two of obsession with whatever woman he made his bedfellow. There was little use for fun if one did not have a reward—and the reward she gave him was one of the best.

She allowed him to take her with soft sighs. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist and her hips arching.

He left her before he needed to on those occasions, always still eager for more.

The nights he remained, he took her with her cheek turned against the pillows.

Those nights, her fingers clutched against the sheets. Her brow beaded with sweat and her pale body was raised up for him. In the dark, he clung to her. One hand holding her hips, caressing her body, and the other tangled in the tendrils of her hair. His unforgiving pace never let up on those nights and she cried out her gratitude.

Those sweet cries in his ears, he barely noticed the grey rain of September gradually turn into the white of December. Her husband is a fool, he reflected with a grin whenever she moaned underneath him, the air thick with the scent of sex, fucking his maids in Bath when he has such a wife waiting for him in London.

She keened underneath him, a screaming moan coming from her lips.

Thoughts dashed from his mind, he increased their speed until he was taking her without mercy. The flesh of his hips snapping against her, their bodies slapping together. Finally he heard her sound, the pants and shrieks, he had already committed to memory. Every time, it surprised him and brought him to the edge.

He curved himself around her with a stuttered, guttural shout of her name. He stroked his palm over her stomach as they panted, coming down from the high.

There was silence for a time. Eventually he felt her hand reach back, just as his spent cock slid out from her. Her fingers sunk back into his hair.

He leaned forward as she turned her head.

The kiss she took was light, languid, a teasing thank you amidst the sweat and sex.

Sighing, he rolled off her body, sinking onto the bed. He threw one arm against his damp forehead. Beside him, she was already half-asleep. How she slept, he did not care. There was nothing interesting to find in people's sleeping habits. They were always far more interesting when they were awake anyway.

She stirred as the sounds of London's afternoon filtered through the windows.

Her right arm stretched out, the movement slurred by her sleep. Her hand found his stomach, idly brushing over his ribs. Sherlock stared up in the bed's canopy. His hand covered hers, keeping it in its place. His head swam with the feeling of oblivion.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

 **December 1786**

The setting winter sun struck long, opaque shadows over her bedchambers. The sheets abandoned, mussed and tangled by their activities, she shook out her hair. The brown tangled curls tumbled down past her shoulders. Short tendrils clung to her forehead, her body slick with sweat. Her breasts, small and white with pastel pink tips, shone in the light.

Sat on his lap, her thighs straddling his hips, she looked far from sweet. She looked like how her kisses tasted; rich, the right side of overindulgence. The most delightful part of his consumption.

She hummed and reached forward. Her movements idle, she ran the pads of her fingers and thumbs over his chest.

"You're thinking," he murmured. He tucked one hand behind his head. He rubbed his left hand over the top of her thigh. She smiled. His fingers curved down in response.

He dipped two fingers into her wet centre, testing her. She gasped, rising up as he deepened the pressure, pressing her hand into his pillow, keeping it firmly in place beside his head. She gently rocked against his hand with soft squeaks and sighs, fucking herself on his fingers. He idly stroked her clit with his thumb. As her sighs edged into familiar moans, he withdrew.

"You've been with many women?" she asked after a silence, settling back onto his lap. There was a quiet fury in her eyes at being denied.

"Why?" His mouth quirked with a playful smirk. He calmly sucked his fingers, tasting her. "Are you jealous, my lady?"

Her fingers stilled against his chest and slowly closed into a fist. Her fury, bubbling underneath, stilled. He hissed as she dragged her hand down his chest, her nails sharp. She leaned down close towards him.

"No," she murmured with a smile. She kissed the corner of his mouth, his temple, his nose. Her lips felt warm on his cool skin. "Not at all, my sir."

The light outside the window shifted, darkening with the coming of evening. He stared at her. His hands moved towards her body; his right hand stroked the small of her back. His left reached down. Pressing his fingertip lightly against her lower stomach, he paused. Slowly, he drew a line up her body towards her chin. She shivered and bit at her bottom lip.

"Pity," he whispered.

He rolled onto his left side. She followed, landing on her right side with a gasp. He caught her laugh with a stolen kiss. He took and took from her, tongue sliding between teeth and lips taking her breath until finally she whined. Another familiar sound he had long ago captured, bottled and put among his memories.

Her hands sank into his curls. He broke their embrace to turn his head and press a dry kiss to her left breast. His left hand descended back down her body.

She hitched and arched at his touch. She was hot and wet and she writhed against his fingers, a plea for more. He watched her, his eyes burning.

"You were jealous."

She nodded, eyes fluttered closed.

"My sir—"

His mouth twitched. "I enjoy jealousy on a woman." He kissed her again, fierce, and she moaned.

* * *

Sitting at her writing desk, Irene brought out a quill and paper and ink. Sharpening the quill's nib, dipping it into the ink, she pressed it onto the paper. Ink pooled, staining the blank off-white of the page. Irene sighed, discarding the paper and quill. Crossing her legs, she pressed her chin against the palm of her hand. The desk's candle flame flickered. In the shadow of the light, she fiddled with the signet ring that displayed her husband's legacy.

London in the winter was always dull enough for her to consider hosting an assembly.

She stood, went to the door and called for her maid.

"Yes, ma'am?" asked the maid, a dark-haired woman of about her age. There was a natural resentment carried in her eyes. The maid gave a courteous curtsey and single nod of her head.

"Has the post arrived?"

"I can't say."

"Fetch the butler."

The maid obeyed, and soon, the butler entered the bedchamber. He bowed.

"Ma'am. I understand you wished to know about the post?" He nodded to her waiting look. "Nothing so far today. Any letters shall be brought to you straight away."

"Draw me a bath," she said, returning to sit at the writing desk. She shuffled invitations she was yet to reply to, household bills to be paid, the stained paper. She blew out the candle. "Tell the maids I'll wear the red."

"Of course, Ma'am."

Irene stilled when the doors closed. Her hands left the papers and threaded tight together. Her knuckles flushed white. She pressed them close to her pursed lips.

She remained that way until the doors opened once more, maids tending to their commanded duties. Irene stood when they called her, wordless when they scrubbed her skin, when they dressed her in corsets and petticoats. She glanced at herself in the mirror when her appearance was finished.

"I'll be out for the night," she told them as she put on her cloak. She travelled down the staircase into the entrance hall. A footman opened the front door. A swirl of newly arrived snow caught at the hood of her cloak. It flapped at the edges of her face. The wind cut her cheek. Clutching the hem tight, she stepped out and into her carriage.

The streets were filled only with the bravest of beggars, who had their faces and hands swathed in old wool. Irene let the curtains of the carriage fall back against the window, staring ahead at the plush seating. It was a pale shade of blue, comfort enough for any journey. She smiled at the memory of different companions with whom she had wiled away the tedium of the rocking and jerking of the cobblestones and dirt tracks of England.

The carriage continued on its route, winding through the streets, and came to a stop. Irene pulled back the carriage curtains. Through the flurry of snow, she saw her destination. Her driver, chin and jaw obscured by his scarf, opened the carriage door. Irene climbed out of the carriage onto the pavement. Her hood was low over her face. She tugged her cloak further around her dress. Her driver hurried up to the townhouse door, knocking three times. The door swung open.

Irene swept past the doorway, pushing back the hood of her cloak.

"Tell your mistress that her friend is here to see her." She tugged off her gloves with her teeth. "Driver, wait outside."

Her driver nodded, hurrying back to his post. The footman shut the door.

"My mistress is asleep Ma'am, but she shall be informed of your arrival," the footman explained. Irene shucked off her cloak and handed it over to him.

A dull landscape hung on the wall opposite. Labourers, dots in the painted hills, led a horse through the mud of a distant field. A simple farmhouse stood above them on the highest hill, painted grey and imposing. The gilded frame added to the nonsense.

"Oh!"

A door had been left open somewhere, carelessly. Irene whirled at the distant sound, looking up for the source. A slice of cold spider-walked down her spine.

"Oh, oh – oh!"

She swallowed, but her dry throat could not block out the sound. The screams and moans continued, ignored by the present footmen. An established sound in this home.

"Molly," groaned a second, lower, voice. "Molly—" Irene glanced at the faces of the footmen. A second sound, as established as the first. They were blank-eyed, expressionless, without opinion on their mistress. Loyal to their mistress.

The first voice exploded with a call of their lover's name. A flush, deep and dark, shot up Irene's chest, flooding her cheeks. She called for the footman. He still held her cloak. She snatched it from him, tying the cloak tight around her shoulders and throwing the hood over her face. The footman opened the door as she shoved on her gloves.

"Back home," she snapped at her driver. His hat and eyebrows were sprinkled with snow. Irene climbed back into her carriage, slamming the carriage door behind her. She closed her eyes. The familiar rocking and bumps of London began.

Irene snatched off a glove. Sniffing, she wiped her eyes and cheeks.

She froze.

Her next breaths shook, fragile at the new fact. She touched a finger to her cheek. They were damp with old tears, growing wetter with new. She swallowed. Her throat was still dry. Her lungs grew tight. Her mouth grew slack, her face blank, as the tears came.

* * *

She stripped herself of the red, and screamed at her maids. They only returned to her when it came time for supper.

The mirror above the fireplace was cracked. The mantelpiece clock lay on its side before it, the clock face smashed and the hands stopped. Her maids waited for her command.

She told them to fetch the blue.

The flurry of snow had proved to be exactly that. It didn't settle and left behind only damp pavements. Irene stared at the cracked mirror as her maids tied her corset strings anew. They helped her into her dress. The bodice was embroidered with ice-white thread that glittered. The three-quarter sleeves were edged with ruffled lace. She chose pastel blue coloured shoes, and red to stain her lips. She told her servants to be ready to receive her, and went out into the cool evening. Her breath came out in billows of vapour as she hurried into the carriage.

The journey was short, and she opened the door before the carriage was stopped. When it pulled up, Irene stood and climbed out. Moonlight tinged the damp pavements white. The butler held a candelabrum before them as he escorted her up the stairs. They came to the drawing room. Leaving her with the candelabra and a soft address, the butler bowed and departed. Irene's eyes flitted to the one footman in the room, stood by the fireplace.

He himself was stood by his writing desk. A pile of half-blank papers lay atop abandoned letters and invitations. Music notes covered those half-blank pages. A quill stood in its ink pot, waiting. His playing stuttered and started and went back on itself. He wore an embroidered dressing gown over the usual garments. His waistcoat was a plain black.

He ceased his playing with a screech of his bow against the strings. He set down his violin. He moved closer. The light of the candelabra caught stains of ink on his fingers. The stained fingers tapped out a rhythm on the wood of the side cabinet. He grinned.

"My love."

"You must know why I'm here. If you don't, I shall be disappointed," she added, watching, her breath hitching, as Sherlock turned away from her. He poured himself a whiskey from a decanter.

"Yes, well. I've moved on, to greener pastures." He sat in his high back chair, throwing his leg over an arm and drinking from his glass. "Sorry. Neglected to tell you."

"Are you in love with her?"

His hand twitched; but he swallowed back his whiskey. Wiping his mouth, he pressed the empty glass into his thigh. He shook his head. A sly grin crept onto Irene's face. Her eyes brightened. She wandered the length of the room, approaching him.

"That's the only possible reason you'd lie to me, when the evidence is so obvious." She came to a stop before him. He sat up in his chair. No longer the languid scoundrel. Her sly smile turned spiteful. She offered out her hand, turning up the face of the letters towards his eye line.

"Things have gone on long enough. Do you recognise this writing?" His attention shifted up to her. Fury settled into his face. Irene pulled at the green ribbon that held them. She took one, unfolding it. She read the familiar words. "She has a humour about her, doesn't she? When she writes. Her hand too – it's not as elegant as others. She's always so eager to get her thoughts down, to share them with me. Elegance doesn't matter to an intelligent, passionate mind. Oh, and this summer? When she was staying with her aunt. Before she married that pathetic lawyer of hers. Before you met her."

"What of it?" Sherlock asked dully.

"I was her most—" Irene paused. Blue-tinged nights, wingless angels dancing as she explored Molly with her tongue, found her memory. "Faithful companion, to put it delicately."

The fury in his eyes flickered like a lightning storm. He leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands to his face. His hands steepled together, he pressed them to his lips, brushing over his Cupid's bow. A thoughtful, idle expression crossed his face.

"And she was mine," Irene said into the silence. "She gave herself over to me completely. She was beautiful Sherlock. Our girl. She tastes wonderful, doesn't she? Addictive."

His eyes flicked back up, finding hers in the evening light. Dampness edged the whites of his eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched.

"I knew."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** _An epilogue will follow this chapter, and I've no plans to make the wait for that to be as long as the wait for this chapter._

* * *

"Mary alerted me to it. She'd mentioned, amid telling me how she planned to take Mrs Abbot to the theatre, that Molly had told her of spending the summer at Greenwood House; and that she'd encountered you there—"

"Sherlock—"

"It seemed worth investigating. After all, if I was going to have her…" He took a breath. "I needed to be thorough. No stone left unturned."

He turned on his heel. He beckoned. Wiggins stepped forward, and bowed. His rat-like face was half-lit by the evening.

"My master instructed me to go to Greenwood and see what I could find out," he began. "I used a number of vails; on the gatekeeper, the housekeeper – she was kind enough to bring me the maid who served Miss Hooper's – as she was known at the time – bedchambers. She told me everything she saw. Including what she witnessed on your arrival to Greenwood, Lady Adler."

"Stop it."

"What else, Wiggins?"

"The maid revealed, sir, that she'd also seen you, Lady Adler, entering Miss Hooper's bedchamber on numerous occasions. And that she heard – moaning, sir. Moaning of an 'intimate nature', she said. I returned and relayed my information to you, sir, just as Mrs Abbot, as she is now, came to visit you with Mrs Watson."

"I remember," Sherlock smirked. "We discussed vails."

"Sherlock!" She stamped her foot like a distempered spoilt child. Her cheeks flushed. Her lip trembled. It was every rejection, every spurn, coming to the surface, just as they had shared every laugh in the breath of one idle joke.

His breathing was short, shallow in the long silence.

"So, you knew."

He'd expected the ice calm from her.

Sherlock glanced to Wiggins, nodding once. With a bow, Wiggins departed the room. Sherlock walked towards the side cabinet, throwing his dressing gown onto the sofa. He poured himself another drink, turning and leaning against his desk.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the scribbled musical notes. The half-written pages. He drank. The stains on his fingers made his hand shake. His teeth clinked on the crystal-cut glass.

"I suppose it hurt you, when you found out." She spat that question, stretching her neck up, trying to gain the higher ground when neither of them possessed it. "After all, you pride yourself on damning the people – our people – in whichever way possible."

Molly, asleep in her bed, him by her side feeling security for the first time in his life. She had unconsciously reached for him.

"I don't damn them; they do a good enough job of damning themselves. All those assembly balls," he said. Molly Hooper's fingers, in his hair. Her ankles, at his back. Just simply, only her. "All those masques… where they fuck who they want to fuck in the dark of abandoned parlour rooms. They all return to their routines in the morning. Husband, wife. Politician, doctor, lawyer. Mother, housekeeper. Answer me this, Lady Adler. We two are always compelled to choose the ones who run. Why?"

"Immaturity."

Her anger blazed despite the flippancy of her reply.

"Humans, by their nature, are immature. And immaturity wields consequence," she said. "It is the consequences, however, where the differences in our genders become apparent. Husbands submit to consequence in the form of payments and the loyalty of their peers. Especially in the ranks of the nobility."

He raised an eyebrow. "And the women?" he asked flatly.

"The women… We take on the consequences you do not have. We are the ones who submit fully. Bow our heads, wear the black, carry the rosary and pray to a lifeless moon. To save ourselves from submission, we obey. We cut out our own tongues to make room for your cocks. From the moment I was fifteen, my mother tried to push the knife into my hand." Then a smile snatched the corners of her mouth. "I knew it from the first. I was born with one sole purpose: to dominate your sex and avenge my own."

"And Miss Hooper? Where did she fit into your plans?"

"She… Miss Hooper…" Irene's voice cracked. "She is nothing."

"Liar."

Sherlock turned his back on her.

"Where are you going?" Glancing back, he saw her dart forward, then stop as their eyes connected. Sherlock pulled open the door, wrenching his eyes from hers.

"You know exactly where I go," he said into the silence. "How I think, who I fuck, who I help, and who I destroy. I am a man of my word, Lady Adler, and this game… well, you said it yourself. It really has gone on far too long."

* * *

Her hair ran loose down her back, curled from a day of being pinned and pulled into place, and she wore a blue satin robe over a white nightgown. Her smile was giddy. It was something she'd worn when they first met, mellowed then by the happiness of her marriage. The giddiness she displayed now was unguarded, dazzling as she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him in greeting.

"I missed you," she sighed, and all at once, her hand slid into his, and he followed her up the stairs, into her bedchambers. The room smelt of her; she had recently pleasured herself, he noted. Eager for his arrival. He dimly remembered sending on his doorman to inform her of his impending arrival. The scent of her in his nose, in his head, he kissed her, deeper than her greeting embrace, pressing her against the bedchamber wall. She moaned, and her fingers sank into his hair. Around his neck, caressing, drawing him closer to her mouth. Her nails would leave scratches. Shallow white lines that would soon fade.

He dropped to his knees as she exposed herself before him, drawing up the hem of her nightgown until it was around her hips and her legs were spread. He took in the sight of her, the dark thatch of curls bared to him as it had been so many times before.

His lips brushed the skin of her thigh. He could so easily lose himself in this—for a moment he almost believed that, if she wished, she could reach right inside him, underneath the flesh and the bone and the muscle, to find what it was that ached so much when he kissed her, touched her, _had_ her.

The thought snapped everything into focus. He paused. He felt his fingertips stroke and knead at her thighs, drawing out her arousal.

"No," he sighed.

He pulled back from her. She grew lax, her hands dropping from his neck onto his shoulders. She shifted, until she was before him, on her knees. She touched his face, sliding her palm underneath his jaw.

He wanted so badly to cringe back from her.

"Sherlock?" He had never seen her naiveté. It had always been a term pinned to her by others. A flash of it crossed her features when he said nothing. "Tell me what's wrong."

He was up in a flash, hurrying towards the window. He breathed. He stared out at London. Carriages passed. Pairs and groups walked by. He saw things no-one else saw: a pickpocket ridding a distracted gentleman of his wallet. A lover tugging at the arm of his latest conquest, barely waiting to be out of sight before he cupped her face and kissed her.

"I – know of Greenwood."

"Greenwood?"

Her innocent tone bit his heart. He whirled round to face her, feeling a dangerous smirk creep onto his lips.

"Let's not do that, shall we?"

Avoiding her eye (she looked lost, like a hunted deer, when she had been part of the whole thing, drawn into this battleground), he reached into his coat.

The letter was curled at the edges, yellowed with faded ink from multiple readings, multiple arrogant scans of the elegant hand.

He dropped it on the floor between them.

"Evidence. You'll find it riveting."

She stood. Her legs trembled, he noticed. Her hands were calm, though, as she picked up the letter with its broken seal, and thumbed it open. She did not read aloud. He knew the words of the letter off by heart.

 _My dear Sherlock, a kiss? I should think you have softened. I have given her the account of how we met, with a certain blur of the truth here and there. I have urged her to forget her transgression with you—I should think she should be yours within the month, at most. Then, once you have procured this notorious letter, we may have our triumph: the promised one night. It'll be enjoyable enough for us to regret it's to be our last—_

"Fine," she snapped, tears edging into her voice. As he looked up, pulled from his thoughts, she swallowed. Her eyes were pinked, alight with fury. "I've read enough."

No. It wasn't fury. That was a poor deduction. This was jealousy.

"Let me give you the truth. I stole a lover from her, as a game. One of our first. I took her lover to Bath, where we spent some time together before I broke it off. She tried to visit our former lover to give her condolences, but was turned away at the door by our lover's husband. I always knew she'd want revenge for it." He tilted his head.

Molly dropped into a crouch as he spoke, her head sinking into her hands, her fingernails sinking into her hair. Her tears came without preamble, nor any dry sobs. He crossed the room, bending over her crouched form. "I'd wager that your time with Lady Adler at Greenwood? It was a part of that revenge."

"Stop it!" She leapt up to her feet as he straightened. Her jaw was drawn tight, her body trembling. She slapped him across his cheek. The pain was sharp, fading quickly as the sound echoed. "Just… stop it."

She slapped him for a second time; a third too. As she raised her hand again, jealousy green in her brown eyes, he lashed out, catching her wrist and stilling it. Her breathing was heavy, his shallow breaths mingling with it.

Her breathing slowed as he, with his free hand, held her waist.

Her wrist slid from his grip.

Slowly, his arms wound around her shoulders until he was holding her, his fingers clutching at the shoulder of her robe, the back of it, feeling satin where once he'd felt her flesh and blood, warm and wanting and waiting. Her arms were cold around his waist, her height rising as she arched her feet, both sinking into one another's grip. Her tears flooded her cheeks, wet on his waistcoat as she nuzzled against him, seeking security from the truth. Still holding her, he stroked the tendrils of her hair, letting them scatter over his fingers. Some rebel part of him wanted to take everything he had broken and put it back together in whatever way possible. Even if the outcome wasn't the same as what had come before, it would be better than what stood in his arms now.

It was he who broke. Shifting, he curled his hands around her thighs, picking her up. Her tears gave way to gasps, snatches of noise as her breath returned to her.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she clung to him as tightly as he knew she could dare, and turned her cheek to his shoulder. She softly kissed his neck, brief brushes on his pulse.

Her hand covered his heart as he sat among the tangled sheets of her bed. The scent of her pleasure was fading, but her perfume stuck to his skin while she clung to him. He rubbed circles into her back and kissed her bare shoulder as the satin of her robe slid down her arm. He kissed her cheek, kissed away the drying stains of tears. The fresh ones too.

When the kisses faded, when her breathing returned to normal, he lifted her from his lap and laid her out on the bed. She was small and fragile among the white, her body folded in as if ill, in physical pain. Her energy and her strength drained from her. He the fault of it, the cause of it.

The letter lay abandoned on the floor. Sherlock stood and went to pick it up.

"Leave it," she said. Her order was dull, hollow. Sherlock straightened up. Her eyes flickered towards him. A glance, and for that glance, he saw a moment of her strength returned. "Leave me," was the second order.

Sherlock shut the door behind him, leaving the letter alone. He heard her weep anew.

* * *

Lady Adler, Wiggins told him, had hurried back to her townhouse. Gathering the rest of his letters, giving no glance to the half-finished notes scrawled on music sheets, Sherlock followed her. Her footman allowed him inside from the cold without protest, and told him she was sitting in the parlour.

He dropped the letters, tied together with ribbon, all with ink written by a well-trained hand on their pages, at her feet.

She sat by the unlit fire, unmade-up, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a smile on her face before she arched an eyebrow.

"The game has been concluded," he spat, a breath between his words.

She abandoned her shawl on her chair as she rose to her feet. "Go home, Sherlock. It's late."

Oh, he'd known there was a chance of arch dismissal. Yet there was no ache at hearing it said, for that ache remained with a married woman crying.

"Not late enough," he called after her retreating form.

He watched as she slowly turned, inclining her head. Sherlock glanced down at her hands. Her left trembled. Catching it with her right, she faced him fully.

Sherlock spoke again.

"The night's still young," he said, gesturing to the high arched windows of the parlour. "London is still alive. If the night is alive, then so is our promise." He reached her and grasped her upper arm. He narrowed his eyes. "I'll see that promise fulfilled, Irene."

"In what manner?" Softly, she inclined her head. Her perfume flooded him, her made-up lips gentle on his cheek. She lingered, but the kiss was brief. Her lips inched close to his ear. The whole room was still. "What exactly will you do?"

He let her go, and the room moved again. The curtains moved with the wisp of a draft. Irene blinked. Her smirk twitched, but did not abate. The more pain he saw in her, the wider her smile seemed to be.

"Oh, Sherlock. Despite the claims you make, you crave sentiment. You're entirely driven by your emotions. What, are you so surprised that I made you chase after a girl who is, if she is anything," she laughed, and the sound was hollow, "the very definition of sentiment?"

She remained there; with her head inclined and her smirk turned into a smile. Her eyes brimmed, wet and shining.

Sherlock took a step forward. Her breath caught, the great Lady Adler nothing more than Irene, and she dipped her head as he cupped her cheeks. He kissed her forehead.

Just as he'd fallen for it, she had fallen too.

* * *

He cupped her cheeks, and pressed his lips to her forehead. He murmured something, soft with no meaning to anyone else. She could laugh in his face; break the tension so taut and claim the victory once and for all. Instead, she sighed. She hardened the sigh, so a laugh might come.

Tears finally came, salty as they slid against the corners of her mouth. She shivered.

Heartbreak can leave a human broken. He had concluded the game, and, Irene sensed somehow, severed something significant. He had left her without triumph and no anger.

She was alone, Sherlock long departed, when she moved with a gasp that had her doubling back. She flailed out, grasping at the cold stone mantelpiece as she gasped back breath over breath. Tears streamed down her face.

Molly.

Molly, who had read quietly by a window pane.

Molly, who smiled when defeated.

She had to see her. Wiping her eyes, Irene called for her maids. Changed herself, picking out a blush pink gown, its three-quarter sleeves ruffled. She ordered herself to be made up, her hair combed. Leaving her maids behind, she rushed down the stairs.

"My carriage," she barked to her butler, "call for my carriage."

Calmly he bowed.

"My cloak – my cloak—" she muttered, jittery as she waited in the entrance hall.

"Here, my lady," said her butler. He quietly gestured as a footman slid the garment over her shoulders. Irene nodded, drawing it closer over her chest, tying the fastenings.

"Good, good – my carriage?" She reached for the hood and drew it over her head.

"Arrived, my lady," her butler replied, glancing out of the window. A footman stepped forwards, offering out her gloves. Irene shook her head, dismissing him as she started for the front door. Civilians wandered past the opening door, their cotton cloaks covering home-sewn garments which whipped up around their legs in the wind.

"My lady," began her butler, making her pause. She did not turn her head to face him. Coming to stand beside her, he bowed and continued. "You understand I shall have to inform the Admiral."

She blinked, swallowed. "It's no matter of mine."

Leaving no more time to waste, she picked up her skirts and hurried onto the pavement, climbing into her carriage. Slamming her palm against the carriage roof, she settled back in the seating. The driver urged the horses on. The curtains flapped in the wind, which only seemed to be growing stronger.

Irene hugged her waist, her other hand brushing over her bottom lip. With her thumb, she traced the shape of it. The shallow shape, where she'd shared kisses plenty with men and women who stared at her with the same learned corruption.

(Part of the games had always been letting the other players think they were the victor triumphant.)

Molly had always resisted that corruption. Irene half-smiled. That always was what Frances had wanted Irene to teach her daughter: to be a part of high society, corruption was key. The ability to look the other way. Irene had taught her to look society fully in the eye, to focus on all its foibles and flaws.

She knew why.

She'd wanted Molly to run away, and hide. She'd wanted her afraid.

She'd stared at that girl, now a woman and married to a fool, and been amused enough by her singular, simple desires, that she'd wondered what it'd be like if she ran away with her.

And yet. Molly Hooper had never done so. She'd done as taught, and stayed. Consequently, Irene turned the screw. For what purpose—surely to see how far she could take her dear friend, the one she had fucked and kissed like the others, before her friend broke. Before they, together, could finally run away.

She had never been built for patience, nor had she ever liked idleness.

The carriage came to a stop.

"Mrs Abbot's, my lady," said the driver, opening the carriage door. Irene stepped out and hurried to the door. Thrice she knocked on the door. It swung open.

"Lady Adler," she told the footman. "I'm here to—"

"My mistress doesn't wish to see anyone."

Irene blinked. "What?"

"My mistress is unwell," the footman explained. His lips were thinned, but his features were otherwise blank.

At last, a laugh, high and short, came to her lips.

"Get out of the way." Surging forward, she pushed past the footman. She hurried up the steps. One, two, one two. "Molly! Molly!"

She ascended quickly, her skirts bunched in one hand, the hem of her cloak flurrying around her skirts. As she reached the corridor, her feet broke into a jog.

She pushed open the bedchamber door.

Molly was laid on the bed, her legs curled up to her chest. Her nightgown was pooled around her thighs, her robe half-slipped off her shoulder. Quietly, Irene shut the door behind her. She inched closer to the bed.

"I am not well enough to receive visitors."

Molly spoke with acid civility. Her tone wasn't weak, but strong. Strong enough that Irene cracked a smile as she stood over her.

"Surely you can see a friend?"

Molly rolled onto her back. Her brows narrowed.

"Get out."

Irene widened her smile, tutting. "My friend, do not—"

"Get out!" She convulsed with the force of the command. Irene blinked, stumbling back from the force of it. Wordless, she watched Molly struggle to sit up, wiping approaching tears from her eyes. She stood, feet bare on the wooden floor. She stared Irene fully in the eye. In the growing silence, the kindness and quietness of her character fell away.

"Your letters are in a drawer of my dressing table. Take them, and get out."

Irene swallowed back her reply.

There was no kindness in Molly's eyes because she was angry. That was the truth.

Turning, Irene hurried towards the dressing table. Her skirts brushed over another letter, left in the middle of the room, and the paper skittered across the hard floor.

Opening the drawers, Irene searched and found. Each letter was folded back into their envelope. There were no curled corners, no softened edges that came with rereading. A soft pink ribbon tied the pile together. She had read each letter once, and put it away.

Molly had always taken things to her heart too quickly.

"Molly, I…"

"Don't try such tactics with me. I know the game," she spat. It was a short distance from her dressing table to her bed, but a world apart as they stood on either side, the wind picking up outside. Oh, yes, Molly was a world away. But her anger was as intimate as the small room in Greenwood, as intimate as the look they shared over the banister of a stairwell. "I know you do too. Get out."

The command was echoingly final.

* * *

It was the drawers at her bedside where she had taken, in the past months, to keeping her letters. The ones in her hands now felt heavy. They felt heavier as the maid before her clumsily tried to stand before the bedside table, her hands adjusting her skirts, trying to hide from view the bulge in her apron pocket, tucking in the familiar ribbon that tied together every correspondence, every piece of the puzzle.

Irene felt no rage. She simply sighed and dumped the letters in her hand on the soft cotton of her bed, going to sit at her dressing table. In the mirror's reflection, the maid's back was to her. The maid possessed long black hair, tucked within a white cap with strands escaping at the nape of her neck.

"Do I not pay you enough?" Irene asked, trying to sound bright. She picked out a handkerchief from her dressing table's right-side drawer. She smeared at her makeup, the heavy red of her lips, the pink of her cheeks, the white of her powder. Her skin emerged, flushed underneath the weight of the make-up. Half in make-up, half-naked, she glanced over her shoulder at the maid. "You could've just said. Come here, undo my hair."

The maid bowed her head in a single nod and stepped forward. The weight of the letters caused her apron to sway a little as she approached. Irene settled back in her chair, staring at her half made-up face, the smeared marks of her lipstick. The maid withdrew well-hidden hair pins from her head, one by one. Irene winced at the last few, her eyes flicking towards the neat line of pins the maid set out on the dressing table surface as she worked.

The maid's fingers drew over her hair at the last, teasing out the tangled waves of hair to tumble over Irene's shoulders. She picked up a comb, and began at the ends. She drew the comb softly and rapidly over knots. Irene's closed her eyes, feeling the comb's teeth sink through her hair, biting on her scalp as the teeth ghosted through the smoothed hair.

A brush next, soft where the comb bit. The maid's fingers ghosted over her neckline, her collarbone as she scooped Irene's hair around her shoulder.

A silence followed.

"Very good," Irene said finally. She stood, facing the maid. "Undress me."

The maid bowed her head once more. "Ma'am."

"You're Irish," Irene remarked as the maid worked from behind her, undoing each lace on her bodice. The maid was silent save for a low noise at the back of her throat as she helped her mistress out of the bodice, the sleeves sliding down her arms. She removed the skirt too, undoing the hoop skirt underneath. In her slip and stays, Irene stood in her bedchamber.

The maid returned to the front, her hands lowering towards the base of the stays. With practiced fingers, she hooked her forefinger underneath the first lace, holding the knot in place as she pulled at the bow. Irene watched her.

There was a dipped crease at the space between her brows. A mellowed frown, a mark of professional concentration. Trained never to give a word of confusion, or question how something worked.

Her lips were full, her eyes brown, almost the same black shade as the hairs poking out from her cap. There was little eagerness to please within her. She stood in a maid's dress, her hands rising towards Irene's breasts, undoing the last of the binding, and she looked defiant.

She went to leave, taking the stays and garments with her.

"Stop. Just a moment," Irene added, as the maid turned to face her.

"Ma'am," she said once again.

Irene quietly approached, tilting her head. Her smirk hovered at the corner of her mouth, not quite taking. She held the maid's chin between her fingers and thumb. She drew herself close. Her breath was warm on the maid's mouth, but her lips felt cold. She curiously, desperately, searched for a kiss while their lips connected.

The maid's eyes were unchanged as Irene drew away.

"Thank you, Ma'am," she said, dispassionately.

She gathered up the letters from the bed. _Tell them all_ , Irene thought, watching the maid leave. _Let them know_ truth _rather than gossip._

They all deserved to be wounded by truth.


End file.
